Under the Jolly Roger

by L. A. Meyer

  Anyway, that's for the boys. Drake looks at me appraisingly and says, "No, you're just not strong enough. Someday those boys"—he says, nodding toward Ned and Tom who are lustily going after each other with the dulled practice sabers that Drake has issued to them—"will be strong enough, but you will never be."

  "I am quick and strong for my size," I protest.

  "I know, but still, a swordsman of even little skill would have your sword arm off at the shoulder in the wink of an eye." He throws me a practice saber and I snatch it out of the air and we go into the en garde position and he says Now! and the blades touch for a second and then he feints and I lunge to the side and then I see that he has already laid his sword on my right shoulder, right at the joint.

  I look at my still-attached sword arm with a certain fondness and decide to listen to what he has to say.

  "If you persist in trying to learn this art, Miss," he says with a heavy emphasis on the Miss, "we shall stick to the foil, and then to the rapier. Here. Take this." And he hands me a foil and takes one himself.

  He comes beside me and shows me the hand position—the thumb on top of the pommel and the rest of the fingers curled around. "See how by pulling the thumb back and forth and squeezing or not squeezing the fingers, you can control the point of the blade, up or down, and with your wrist, right or left? Good. Now, en garde."

  I assume the position.

  "Now hold your hand like this and position the point of your blade such that it is directly between your eyes, and the eyes of your opponent. Hold that." He moves back and lifts his own sword and gets in the en garde stance, which is the mirror image of mine. "Now the point is between our eyes. Advance."

  I do it.

  "Now retreat." I do that, too.

  "Put your sword hand a little bit more to the left, but keep the point between our eyes. Good. That is Position Four. It protects your left side. See, if I lunge in this position, my blade would slide harmlessly off to the side."

  He makes a slow lunge to show me, and sure enough, I am able to slide his blade off to the side.

  "Now, however, if I were to dip the point of my blade under your weapon"—he does it—"then I am in Position Six and your right side, from your breastbone to your right shoulder, is exposed."

  He makes a slow lunge and puts the point of his foil on the right side of my chest. He retreats. "Now, to prevent that, when you see my point coming down into Six, you disengage from Four and go into Six—rotate your forearm and pull it way out to the right, still keeping the point between our eyes. Yes, I know it hurts. But it will hurt less than a sword point run through your neck. All right, go back in Four, which exposes my left side, and lunge."

  I do it and he lets me touch him on the chest.

  "Good. Now we shall have a match. You will advance and retreat and lunge at will, keeping in mind these two positions. They are the most important ones for the rapier, the other positions being ones that protect the legs and feet, but we will get to them later. Put the pommel of your weapon to your face with the point in the air and bow, and I will do the same. It is tradition. Now, en garde!"

  And so it goes, for hours, it seems. Advance, disengage Four, lunge, recover forward, retreat, retreat, advance, out of Six, into Four, lunge, recover. Now, beat parry Four, into Six, lunge! Retreat, beat parry Six, and...

  He parries everything I try, coming back to lay his point on my throat, my breastbone, anywhere he wants, but then, when he sees that I grow discouraged, he lets me through to touch him on the chest.

  Finally, we stop. "You did well," he says. "Especially on the envelopment parry. It is not an elegant thing, but it might save your life someday. Good day, Miss. You know what to practice." With that he leaves me standing there, exhausted.

  I have the Evening Watch, the Eight to Twelve, one of the sweetest watches to stand, for it guarantees eight solid hours of sleep afterward.

  Before going up, I take food down to share with poor Robin, yet again. Tonight's dinner is fine cuts of meat swimming in a sauce made of what I think are truffles. Truffles!

  He has not cheered up much, but then again, how could I blame him, confined as he is to an eight-by-eight-foot cage, not knowing what is to become of him. Plus, him thinking that I'm being ravished on a regular basis by the loathsome Captain Scroggs must prey on his mind. He has grown wilder, pacing back and forth like a caged animal and raging. He has taken to pounding the ceiling of the cell with his fist, daring the Captain to take him out and hang him, and poor Private Rodgers has to say, Please, Sir, none of that...

  Robin does not look much like a boy, anymore. He needs a shave.

  I have to let him suffer, for if I were to tell him the Captain is dead, then he would demand to be taken out and put in command, being the senior male officer aboard, and I cannot have that, not yet, anyway. It is not part of the plan.

  After he has eaten, I say, "Come sit over here, Robin, next to the bars. Hold my hand and let me put my head on your shoulder for a bit, as it will give me comfort." He does it and it does give me comfort.

  Before assuming the watch, Higgins appears to collect the dishes. He also has my jacket, for which I am grateful, as it has turned quite cool. Good for the Captain's condition, I reflect.

  "I trust I was not forward, Miss," he says.

  What?

  I go to put the jacket on and I see what he means. Somehow, from somewhere, Higgins has found some lieutenant's lace and woven it through the lapels, just where it belongs. The lace catches the waning evening light. My chest expands with pride. False pride, I know, but still...

  "Thanks, Higgins," I say, and I cannot say more. He bows and disappears in the shadows.

  I step up and assume the watch.

  Chapter 16

  This will be the last day of this deception and I mean to make the most of it. After breakfast I appear on the deck in my jacket with my new lieutenant's lace woven through my lapels, and I hear some low whistles and the Captain's whore—lookit 'er all tricked up, but I choose not to hear. I know it mainly comes from Muck's bunch. I hear a lot more of there's our Puss-in-Boots, by God, and that cheers me.

  Again I set Jared on the deck as Sailing Master, this time without the pretense of helping one of the boys, as it is my watch and I will be busy.

  "Take us out to sea again, Jared. You have the con," I say.

  "Aye, aye, Lieutenant," he says, with a not-quite smirk on his face. I know I let him get away with being entirely too familiar with me, so I give him a warning look. He knuckles his brow and shouts, "All topmen aloft to make sail!"

  I sense, too, that Jared really likes standing on deck as Sailing Master. His teeth gleam in a wide grin as he barks out the orders for the resetting of the sails as the ship turns out to sea. "Get aloft there, you lubbers! Could you be any slower? Port your helm! Haul on those buntlines! Bring her around! Cleat down the foresail! Now the jib!" He is quite a sight, standing there with his feet apart, fists on hips, his head thrown back and the breeze blowing his curls about his face, his back straight and his striped shirt tight across.... No, girl, you keep your mind on the job at hand.

  "Muster the gun crews for practice," I say to the Bo'sun and he goes off and does it.

  I did not do the pantomime at the speaking tube this morning. The Bo'sun took the order directly from me, without notice or comment.

  Good.

  I go and stand on the hatch between the mainmast and the foremast so I can see all four of the gun crews. I have a barrel put over the side.

  "Werewolves! Today we shall practice broadsides. Gun captains, prime your guns!" The guns are, of course, still loaded from the day before, as they should always have been. "Report when ready!"

  I wait for them to prick the charges and pour in the primer and cock the flints.

  "Division One, Manned and Ready, Sir!" barks out Harkness. Good old First Division, first again. "Division Three, Manned and Ready, Sir!" I know the "Sirs" are coming automatic and have nothing to do with me, but...
"Division Two, Manned and Ready, Sir!" Then, "Division Four, Manned and Ready!" says Shaughnessy, shamed to be last.

  "We shall begin with a rolling broadside on the starboard side, fore to aft! Fire on my command!" I wait till the barrel is in good position, then I puff up my chest and yell, "Fire!"

  Number Nine barks out its charge, then Ten, and Eleven, and so on down the line till all eight have fired, each in turn. It was most elegant, and most of the shots fell close to the barrel. The starboard side rushes to reload.

  "Jared, bring her about!"

  He does and the port guns have their turn.

  "Fire!" I shout again and Number One cracks, then Two, and so on down the line, each gun thundering in turn. I lift the long glass to watch the target. It is Number Seven that nicks the barrel, I think, but it still floats.

  "About again!" I call, and the Wolverine backs her sails and comes around. Nice maneuver, Jared.

  "Full broadside this time, Mates! On my order!" Again I wait a bit and then... "Fire!"

  There is a mighty, thunderous blast as all the starboard guns belch forth at once. I know it is small of me, but I find it immensely satisfying for my small voice to bring forth such a tremendous sound. The ship itself rocks back in recoil. I look out and see the barrel tossed in the air. There is a mighty shout from the men and I start chanting, "Werewolves! Were-wolves! Were-wolves!" and all the gunners, both port and starboard, pick up the chant "Were-wolves! Werewolves! Were-wolves!"

  Again the ship is brought about and I shout over the din to the port guns, "Full broadside. On my command ... Fire!" The port guns roar as one and the ship heels again and the barrel disappears in a shower of splinters and there is a mighty roar from the men, "Were-wolves! Were-wolves! Were-wolves! Hurrah!"

  I put aside the glass and leap up into the jack lines. "You have done a fine job! Reload, but do not prime, and secure from drill. An extra tot again this day for your fine work, and beef and plum duff for dinner!"

  Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

  My ears are still ringing from the blasts as I head back into the cabin.

  The last day and night as roommates, Captain, I think. I look over at him. His white skin has gone a bit gray and maybe a little black about the temples, but still no overpowering reek. At night, he has begun to give off little pops! and pfffffps! followed by a real stench in the room, but I think that is due mainly to his belly swelling up and then farting and burping itself back down. I will certainly sleep this last night with my nose next to the crack under the door, where a fresh draft works its way in around the Marine sentry's boots.

  I force myself to spend some time in the cabin, for appearances' sake. Having this time, I make a last inspection of the cabin. I haven't forgotten the key that I took off the Captain that now hangs around my own waist, and so now I look about in real earnest.

  I peer around under the desk and poke around shelves and tables and things, but nothing. Then I look over at the Captain. Of course. He would trust nothing that he held valuable to be very far from him. I see that behind the covers that hang down from the bed there are drawers built into the bottom of his bed, and the middle one seems to have a keyhole.

  I don't want to get near him, but I must. I take the key and crawl over on my hands and knees so I won't have to look at his body moldering up there on the bed. I reach the drawer and put the key in the lock and turn it. It works.

  I go to pull it open, but there are some of the covers hanging in front of it, and so I move them to the side and when I do his arm comes swinging down over the edge of the bed and flops against my head.

  "Aaahhhh!" I shriek in terror and fall back on my elbows, watching the horrid arm, all mottled black and white and gray, swinging back and forth in front of the drawer, as if protecting in death whatever the Captain treasured in life.

  Damn! What if someone heard me cry out? I look at the door, knowing the Marine is standing right there. To get so near the end and to be found out now. No! I must...

  "Ahhh, Captain," I say a little less loud than before. Then I pause. Then I giggle. Then I give one of my Captain imitations. Hrrrummmp graggle.

  "Oh, Captain," even less loud this time, trying to make it sound as if the Captain was now done taking his pleasure with me. I don't know what that sort of thing really sounds like, but thinking back to the sounds I used to make when I was in a clutch with Jaim—with that boy back on the Dolphin, I think I've gotten close enough.

  At any rate, there's no pounding on the door.

  The Captain has made his own bed, in a way. He has made his men so terrified of him that no one wants to risk taking it upon himself to check on his well-being. If any of them have suspicions, they keep them to themselves.

  I get up and look about for something to move the Captain's arm, for I'm certainly not going to touch it. Ah. The Captain's sword. I take it, scabbard and all, over to the bedside and with it, I lever the arm back onto the bed, tucking it way over so it doesn't come down again. When I do it, I jostle the body slightly and ... purrrrppp ... I almost cry out again as I whip my hand over my mouth and nose in a vain attempt to keep out the awful smell.

  I drop back to my knees, trying to keep from retching, and pull open the drawer.

  The first thing to greet my sight is an elegant, leather-bound case. I pull it out and open the catch. Inside lie two matched pistols, beautifully engraved and polished. I pick one up and marvel at its workmanship and balance.

  I smile and think. How would Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe, my old nemesis back at the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls in Boston, put this? Ah do think poor Captain Scroggs would want me to have these beautiful thangs, ah really do. I feel the same way, Clarissa.

  I put the pistols aside and delve deeper into the drawer. There is a bag and I lift it out. It clinks and it is heavy. I undo the drawstring on top and look in. It is full of gold. A lot of gold. There are guineas and half crowns and even Dutch guilders and other heavy coins that I can only guess at. I sit back on my heels. How could a mere one-swab captain, one who holds a dead-end command—a brig like the Wolverine usually has a senior lieutenant as commander—have this much money? I have an idea, but...

  I pull the drawer all the way out and put the bag of gold behind it, in case someone else knows of the Captain's stash.

  The rest of the drawer yields some packets of letters with weird groupings of letters on them. Some sort of code. Maybe his secret orders from the Admiralty. I don't know. We shall see.

  That's about it. Another watch. Some rings and snuffboxes and such, but that's it. No letters from a wife. No Dear Papa notes. No locks of hair, no miniature portraits. I close up the drawer and lock it and tie the key once again around my waist.

  As I come out of the cabin, Higgins is there with the noon meal, with a white cloth neatly covering it. No, no, I can't possibly eat anything in there.

  "The Captain is sleeping ...," I say and glance over at Corporal Martin, the Marine on duty, and he blushes. Hmm. I see my little act worked. "... and I don't wish to disturb him. I will take my dinner below."

  I go to take the tray but Higgins says, "Please, Miss, let me. I must get some things and I'll meet you down there with Mr. Raeburne."

  Now, how did he know I've been taking food down to Robin? You are turning out to be quite a fellow, Higgins.

  I take a turn on deck and Higgins beats me down to the brig. He has found a small table and placed it next to the bars close to Robin's bench, and he has found a chair for me to sit upon. He pulls it out as I approach, and I sit. There is a clean tablecloth on the table and the settings are arranged perfectly. The glasses are polished and twinkle in the dim light.

  Higgins pours the wine and serves the food and retreats to the passageway. I know I have only to call and he will appear.

  "Robin. Show some cheer. You are to be released tomorrow. I have arranged it." Hmmm ... perhaps not a good choice of words on my part.

  "How can you stand it? How can you stand him doing that to ..."
He looks even more disheveled and wild-eyed.

  "Now, Robin. None of that. Come, look at this wonderful dinner Higgins has made for us. A glass of wine with you."

  I can see that it all still tortures him and makes him writhe with impotent fury. He eats but seems to take no joy in it. He does throw down the wine, though.

  This whole time, since I first went into the Captain's cabin that evening, Robin has not asked me for a kiss or an embrace or anything of that sort, and I think I know why. Though he has said he would still marry me, and I believe him on that, that would be something that might happen in the future. Right now, he can't bring himself to touch something the Captain has touched, kiss something the Captain has kissed, or embrace something the Captain has taken and defiled.

  We eat mostly in silence.

  Later, as I go out for my swordsmanship lesson, I notice four sets of boyish legs hanging over the edge of the fore-top. One set of legs is whiter, less tanned than the others, but the feet are as bare and the pants are folded up over the knees like the others. Are you looking up at the clouds as they roll past, lads? Are you making plans, boasting of future glory, swearing oaths of eternal brotherhood to each other?

  Even though I am glad to see them so, it gives me a bit of a pang to think back on how my own bare and tanned legs would dangle over the edge of the foretop on the Dolphin, not so very long ago.

  Ah, thoughts of the past—always rosier than they actually were. My reveries end when Peter Drake steps up on the hatch for the lesson. We bow to each other and lift our foils. En garde!