by L. A. Meyer
Hmmm. Courtly. Has manners. Here's a likely one, maybe.
"And what is your name, Sir?" I ask.
He bows and says, "Robin. Robin Raeburne, at your service, Miss, and I am sorry for your recent troubles." He has dark, curly, reddish brown hair, and a fine straight nose, good chin, with a high, clear, and intelligent forehead. He's probably a Scot with that name and that hair.
I give a slight dip by way of an answer to his bow and say, "Don't be. I brought it on myself, as usual."
The small boy comes back in, bearing a mug of steaming tea. He seems to be all of eight years old, his black midshipman's jacket hanging rather loosely on him. Comically loose. He hands the cup to me with both hands, slightly shaking so that some of the tea sloshes out over his hands.
I take the cup and gratefully bring it to my lips. "Ahhh." I breathe as the hot liquid goes down my throat, warming me. "And you, young sir. What is your name?" He is short, round in the face, and blond. His ice blue eyes are open in unabashed wonder.
"Georgie Piggott, Miss," he pipes. "And are you really the girl in the book?"
Oh, Lord.
I sigh and say that I suppose I am, but you shouldn't believe everything you read. The other two squeakers are looking at me in wonder, too. I raise my eyebrows in question at them and one says, "Ned Barrows, Mum," and the other says, "Tom Wheeler."
Ned is a dark-haired boy, with thick curls close to his head, and an open face—cheerful, honest, and slightly pug-nosed. Tom is blondish, with his hair hanging to his shoulders, and he has blue eyes, and a foxy, inquisitive face. Ned is sturdy, while Tom is slight. Again, I place them both at the age of twelve and it is plain that they are close friends.
"Fine. What's for dinner?"
Dinner turns out to be simple seamen's rations—salt pork, biscuit, and pease porridge—brought on a tray by a sullen sailor who dumps the stuff on the table without a word. As he leaves, I give the sailor a look that says, We'll be taking care of that attitude in the future, mark me, man.
We turn to and I tap my biscuit and sure enough several weevils fall out. I brush them off the table and take a bite of the biscuit, taking care to see what the bite exposed in the way of further bugs. Not too bad, I notice. Then I tuck into the salt pork, using my fingers, as I have no knife. Not yet I don't. The three younger ones regard me with unwavering stares. Robin, however, just looks quiet and withdrawn. Sullen, even. You'd think he'd be delighted by being presented with the close company of what has already proved to be a frolicsome young dame, but he ain't. Maybe he's just shy, or maybe I just look too ratty.
"Best tuck in, Mates," I say, "never can tell when next you'll eat again." That bowl of pease porridge—I ain't shy about putting that away, either. Nothing like a brisk swim for the appetite. "So who's got what watch? Are we One-in-Three, then?"
Robin shakes his head. "We don't stand watches. We don't know enough yet. And we haven't been taught anything." His face flames in humiliation. And now, in addition to his previous unhappiness, he is being replaced as Senior Midshipman by a girl.
"Aye, Miss, it's horrible here!" blurts out Georgie. "The Captain..."
But Robin flashes him a warning look and puts his finger to his lips and looks up to the open hatch, where I almost hear the ears flapping. There are no secrets on a ship, and Robin, at least, knows that.
"Good advice, young George," I say, and remove my hand from beneath my blanket and place my hand on his sleeve. "Don't worry, Georgie, I'll find the way of things around here right quick." A bare female shoulder and arm probably ain't the best thing to be presenting to these boys and this young man right now, so I pull my arm back and clutch the blanket around my neck once more.
I signal for a rag to wipe my hands and Ned and Tom trip over each other in finding me one. "Well, we shall see about the watches and the education, too," I say, and rise. "Where's the Watch, Quarter, and Station Bill?"
"I believe Mr. Pelham keeps it, Miss," says Robin. "He's the Second Mate."
"Then we'll have a look at it come morning, Mr. Raeburne," I say. He nods. I look up through the hatch and see that it has gotten quite dark. That bed in there calls me.
"Well, I thank you gentlemen for the use of your clothes. If you'll excuse me..." With that I scoop up the pile of clothing and pad back to my room. "Oh, and I'll need several pitchers of water. Hot water."
***
I've wiped the salt off me as best I can with a cloth dipped in the hot water and I've stuck my head down into the basin and rinsed my hair. It's still a tangled mess, but at least it's clean. I work at it with Robin's comb, after I wash it off—it's tough, but I get it done.
Robin had also given me one of his old shirts to use as a nightdress and I put it on and lace it up. It will serve, though it only comes down to just above my knees.
Sticking my head out the door, I call out, "Mr. Barrows. Mr. Wheeler. Go back up on deck and see if you can find my boots." I hear them scurrying out, eager to please. It's nice being senior, and it's well that I assert my authority right off, no matter what else is going to happen to me.
I'm considering curling up in bed and allowing myself a few tears of self-pity as I sit back down and think about things. ... What's going to happen to me? I mean, it sure doesn't look good for my future as a maiden, that's for certain. What will I do if the Captain has me taken into his cabin and just orders me to strip down and climb in his bed? He's the Captain—no one would stop him. What if the order comes right now? What could I do? The ship's too far out now for me to swim to shore—and it's dark, too, and getting cold.
Plus, there's something in me, and I know it's stupid, but there's something in me that doesn't want to desert after bein' signed on official-like.
I know I'm in deep trouble here, but maybe, just maybe, as I am now read in as a member of the ship's company, that fact will accord me some rights. Especially if I act like I really am a member of the crew, instead of the way they expect me to act, which is like a whining, scared girl. Scared I am, and certainly given to whining, cajoling, wailing, begging, pleading, anything to get out of a fix. But somehow I don't think all that's gonna work here. All I can do is start acting like I belong here, like it's natural. I must start acting like the ranking Midshipman. Starting first thing in the morning. I resolve to get up early to embark on this plan. Very early.
They expect me to hide, so I shall not hide. I shall make myself very visible. It is not much of a plan, but it is a plan, and, as usual, I feel a little better for having one. I turn on my side and, bringing my knees to my chin and hugging my legs to my chest, I go to sleep.
Chapter 5
James Emerson Fletcher
9 Brattle Lane
London, England
September 6, 1804
Miss Jacky Faber
Somewhere in the World
Dear Wild and Stupid Girl,
I am going to continue to write you, Jacky, even though I have not the foggiest idea where you are or where to send these letters or whether you shall ever read them. I am doing it in this manner for several reasons: One, it preserves some sort of communication between us, a spiritual one if you will; and two, it helps calm my raging mind. The third reason is that I hope that we might be reunited soon to enjoy a good laugh over these words.
The girl at the track? Lovely, wasn't she? She is my cousin Emily, my uncle Jemmy's girl. We grew up together, not four doors apart on Brattle Lane. We played together as children and now she is a delightful girl of sixteen who enjoys pretending that I am her amorous escort when we are out and about. I suppose she does this to drive the other young men viewing us crazy with envy. I believe she is using me for practice and it is to my discredit that I rather enjoyed the game. I had thought it a harmless diversion, but I was wrong. You really would have enjoyed her company if you weren't so damned impulsive. But, then, that's not your way, is it, Jacky? Oh no—look but never think; oh no, never to think but only to plunge. Have you ever considered how much more pleasant your life
would be if you just stayed in a damned dress once in a while and didn't ... oh, to hell with it!
I am sure you have just gone off to sulk and I will find you soon and all will be explained and all will be well.
I am in port to study for my lieutenancy exams. How I will be able to face a board of post captains and admirals with your foolish self on my mind, I do not know, but I will try.
Still your humble and etc....
Jaimy
Chapter 6
The next morning, when I hear the bell ring Five Bells in the Four-to-Eight watch, I throw back the covers and make myself get out of bed and go splash the cold water from the pitcher on my face, take care of the necessaries, comb my hair, and begin to dress. It is six thirty in the morning.
I balance myself against the roll of the ship and stick my foot in the right leg of the drawers, and then the left, and yank them up to my waist, right over my money belt. I sit on the edge of the bunk and pull on the stockings and then I pick up the shirt and give the armpits a bit of a sniff—pretty clean, I reflect, but then just how stinky can little boys make things? I pull it over my head and down to my waist. It fits fairly well and has ruffles at the cuffs and neck and lacings that go halfway down the front. I lace it up and pull on the britches. Tight, but serviceable.
The last thing I do is put on the black jacket with its two up-and-down rows of gold buttons. Nice and trim and tight it feels. Hat on, with hair tucked up under, and wishing for a mirror, I'm strapped back in harness again, ready for whatever else happens.
I step back into the midshipmen's berth and almost trip over two of the boys, as Ned and Tom had pulled their mattresses to the floor and are sound asleep outside my door, one to each side—I imagine they are there as protection for my own frail self. My two Knights Errant. Three, actually, as Georgie is curled up over there at the foot of the ladder. Did you all swear mighty oaths on your knightly armor and intend to keep a watchful vigil over yon fair maiden? I am touched. How sweet.
Robin Raeburne is asleep at the table, his head on his arms. There is a cup in front of him and I pick it up and sniff it and it smells strongly of rum. Does it help you sleep, young Robin? Does it help make you forget where you are? If it does, then I shan't blame you for it.
I quietly put the cup back down next to his hand and tiptoe past the sleeping boys and go out of the room, up the hatchway, and into the light.
All on board expect me to hide. Therefore, I shall not hide.
It looks to be a bright clear day with the sun coming up over France out there to port. I grab a ratline off the foremast and climb up into the rigging. I go up past the foretop and gain the fore royal yard and straddle it, looking out toward France.
France seems to be a pleasant place, in spite of all the awful tales I have heard of it ever since I got old enough to listen. I had half-expected there to be ogres and trolls and other of Napoleon's minions hanging about, but instead there are gently rolling hills going off into the distance, marked with neat pastures and farmsteads. There are some inlets set into the coast with a few fishing boats coming out of them to set their nets. But they do not come out too far, I notice, as they know we are lurking out here. Back there, behind us and out of sight below the horizon, is England ... England and Ja—Judy. Back there is Judy, and I hope she managed to make do on the money I left her. Hang on, Judy, till I get out of this mess and can get back to you.
I look down at the Wolverine lying down there below. It is, as I suspected when first I caught a glimpse of it, a Brig-of-War, about a hundred feet long and twenty-five feet wide at the beam—which is half the size of the dear old Dolphin. Two masts instead of three. It probably carries about a hundred men and officers—one-quarter the number on the Dolphin. Looks to be eighteen cannon and they seem to be eighteen-pounders, and they are all right there on the top deck itself, not down on the second deck like on a frigate. I'll bet there's a Long Tom nine-pounder up front as a chaser and another in the stern.
It's plain that the Wolverine is on blockade duty—helping to keep the French warship fleet bottled up in their harbors and disrupting the enemy's seagoing commerce by stopping smugglers. All for the good and glory of Britannia, she who rules the waves, at least for now. And forever, it is hoped.
I look up at the sails and see that she is trim and the decks down below are scrubbed clean, so it is not a sloppy ship. My fear is that she is all spit and polish and not in fighting trim because that's a dangerous situation. I already feel, deep in my bones, that there are some things very, very wrong on this unhappy ship.
Today is Sunday, so I expect there will be a muster of the crew and church, but I don't know. I will wait and see. I know from the smoke curling up from the cooking fires that the next watch is getting their breakfast, and so I slip back down to the deck to get me some. I duck down into the fore hatch and stride into the teeming mess deck. All heads lift up upon my entry and the hum of conversation stops dead. There is a low whistle from some cheeky cove, but that's it. I get a cup of tea and some johnnycake and I sit down across from a seaman seated at the long table. I am used to being the center of attention. Most times I like it. Sometimes I do not.
"Well met, John Harper," I say, sitting myself down next to a man I now recognize. The johnnycake is good and the tea is hot, at least.
"Well met, Jacky," says Harper, smiling slightly. "Or I should say, Miss Faber." He is the man who fingered me as the one and only Jacky Faber the day before. The last I saw of him, he and I were both lookouts on the Dolphin on the day the ship was blasted and sinking and without hope. He is young but balding cleanly back from the forehead, and he affects a goatee, which makes him look like a devilish Spanish pirate, but I know him for a good man.
"So, Johnny, what kind of berth have we found here? Are there any more Dolphins aboard?" I ask. I finish off the cake and sip at the tea.
"As for Dolphins, alas, nay. As for the other question, I go on watch as lookout on the mainmast when the watch changes." He looks around at his fellow crew members and casts me a significant look.
I understand. We swap harmless tales of former shipmates and then I knock off the rest of my tea and stand. "Till later then, John Harper."
I know every eye in the place is on me, so I lift my chin and loudly say, "Good morning, mates. Thank you for sharing your breakfast with me. Is it not a glorious thing to be serving His Majesty the King on this fine day!"
With that, I turn and stride out of there, bootheels rapping on the deck, leaving a roomful of gaping mouths behind me.
I go back up the foremast and get to the topgallant brace and wait till I see Harper take over from the lookout, and then I take the foregallant brace, a line that goes between the two masts for support of both and is under such tension that it's like the wire a circus performer would walk, and I go over, hand over hand, till I reach the mainmast and the grinning Harper.
"Still at home in the riggin', eh, Jacky?"
We are on a very small platform, high, high on the mainmast. Back on the whaler this would be called the "crow's nest." It is where sharp-eyed men looked out constantly across the waves for the spume of a blowing whale.
"May it ever be so, John, as I am never happier than when I am up here," I say and settle myself against a brace. "So what's the story on this bark?"
His face darkens. "'Tis a Hell Ship, for sure, and I've never been on a worse one and it's all on the Captain's head."
"Careful, John," I say, looking about to make sure we are not heard, "you're getting close to mutiny."
"Mutiny!" he snorts. "The crew has been at the edge of mutiny for months. The officers should have done it long ago, but they are frozen in fear of him, just like anyone on board. He has flogged men half to death for sport and he keelhauled a man last month for merely lifting his hand in protection from a beatin' by the Bo'sun. Poor Spooner was alive after he was hauled back aboard, but he was cut up so bad by bein' scraped against the barnacles on the bottom that he died soon after from the infect
ion."
That sends a shiver up my spine. Keelhauling is a cruel punishment wherein a poor seaman is taken up to the bow and a long rope is tied to each of his legs and he's thrown overboard and the ropes are walked back, one on the port side and one on the starboard side, drawing the man underwater all along the encrusted keel and back to the stern of the ship, where he's hauled back up, half drowned and bloody. I have never seen it done, Captain Locke of the Dolphin being a good and fair man, but I have heard accounts of it.
Harper's normally cheerful face is full of anger as he continues. "... And he gave Teddy Smallwood a hundred lashes, a hundred!—just for havin' a bad shave, for Christ's sake, and Teddy still can't stand up straight or put on his shirt in any comfort. I tell you, Jacky, the only times when this ship breathes easy is those times when the Captain is sick and stays in his cabin." Harper pauses and calms himself and sighs, "But he is sick a lot, and we thank God for it."
"Can nothing be done?" I ask.
"No. It would be up to the officers and they ain't done nothin'."
"And the crew?"
He thinks for a moment, then says, "The crew is split up in different gangs with different loyalties, which ain't surprisin' on a ship like this. A man's gotta know who his friends are."
"Who can be trusted?"
"Drake, the Master-at-Arms. Harkness, a gunner, and Jared, the Captain of the Top, are all good men. They command the loyalty of most of the crew."
"Most?" I ask.
"Aye. That gang of lubbers brought on with you looks to be a real bad lot. They've been put with the Waisters, which wasn't a good bunch to begin with."
Ah, Muck is at it again, sowing suspicion and hatred and discord even in the short time he has been aboard. It ain't surprising that he would end up with the Waisters, them being the worst sailors on board any ship, good only for the most simple and brutish of tasks.
