Under the Jolly Roger

by L. A. Meyer

  "If you mean the fire down below, Jacky, that will never go out...," he says, coming for me again.

  "The fire on the desk, you fool!"

  He turns and looks and then smothers it with a pillow from the man's bed. While he does it, I go over and grab the bag the man was stuffing with papers. I have to pull it from under his body. I lift it and discover the bag is weighted, like it's designed to be thrown overboard and sunk with its contents.

  I look at the papers. Some are letters in English, some in French. Some are meaningless collections of letters. I think on this.

  Codes. Spies. The blinking lights on the beach. So, along with everything else he was, Captain Scroggs was a traitor as well. The lights signaled that a spy would be crossing the next day and the Wolverine had to be kept well away.

  "Gather up this stuff, Joseph. Miss none of it. This is very important. This is more important than me or you..." or anything else you might have in mind, Joseph Jared. "This is going to be of great interest back at the Admiralty, and this is going to guarantee our prize money!"

  He's right. It is the first time I've ever been kissed by a full-grown man. Kissed that way, anyway.

  I should have bitten his tongue ... but I didn't.

  The cargo of L'Emeraude, aside from spies, was French perfume—there were boxes and boxes of tissue-wrapped bottles of the stuff. I had it all taken over to the Wolverine and stowed below. 'Course I took some for myself—enough to last several lifetimes, probably.

  The dead spy is stripped of his clothes and a chain with a weight attached is wrapped around his neck and he is thrown overboard without ceremony. I take the papers back to my cabin and tell Private Rodgers that I am not to be disturbed by anybody, and then I go through them carefully. I compare them to the coded things I had found in Scroggs's safe, and they look mighty similar. Some of the letters are in code, some not. I am able to cipher out reports of English troop movements, descriptions of shore fortifications, and things of a like nature. Things an invading army would want to know.

  It seems our spy had several names. Kopp. Boland. And his code name was Defiant. I think for a bit and then I go get a few selected men and some equipment. I coach these men in their duties, set them up, and then go down in the hold to see my supposed smuggler, Mr. Frederick Luce.

  I wear my pistols down for this interview, as well as my sword, and, for good measure, I tie a large kerchief around my head. Luce looks up at me from the bench, and he doesn't look at all happy to see me.

  I cross my arms on my chest above my guns and just look at him for a while. Then I say, "We caught a spy on the last ship we have taken and..."

  NOOOOOOOOaaaaaaaaaaEEEEEEEEEaaahhhhh!

  The ear-piercing shriek comes from someone just beyond the closed door of the hatch, and then a muffled plea, No, no, please, no! and then another shriek. Mr. Luce goes white. There is the sizzling sound of red-hot metal touching bare skin and then the smell of burnt flesh comes under the door. Another scream.

  "... and we are interrogating him. I thought I might tell you that so you do not take alarm." With that, I turn and go out the door, leaving him openmouthed with horror.

  In the next room Peter Drake is leaning up against a bulkhead placidly smoking a pipe and a grinning seaman named Ozgood is sitting in a chair. I had asked the crew if there were any actors among them and all said that Ozgood was just the thing, him not being good for much else in the way of seamanship, that's for sure. He had been doing Hamlet last year in London when he had stepped outside into an alley during intermission for a little hanky-panky with Ophelia, and he was set upon by a press-gang. The ragged remnants of his costume still cling to him. He has taken the whole thing with relative good humor, but he feels certain that his understudy had set him up to be taken by the press-gang and does intend to kill him when he gets back.

  I cover my ears and nod and Ozgood roars out FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MISS, NOOOO! then Seaman Langley takes the hot poker from its bed of coals in the little brazier and puts it on the hunk of salt pork lying on the deck next to the bottom of the door. Then Ozgood screams again. My God, what a pair of lungs! Guess he never had trouble in being heard back in the cheap seats.

  I signal to him to tone it down some and he trails off in a welter of moans and pleas and small cries of despair. He's really pretty good, if a bit of a ham.

  I wait awhile, then signal Ozgood to do some hopeless whining and weeping and he certainly sounds like a soul in deep despair. I open the door and go back in to Mr. Luce.

  He sits there ashen.

  I dust off my hands. "That was distasteful. It is a shame that I will have to do the same to you. You see, your Mr. Kopp—or is it Boland?—has given you up as a fellow spy. Defiant didn't turn out to be very defiant at all. He named you and many others..." and here I reel off a list of names I had culled from the captured papers, looking at him as if he were the scum of the earth, which, of course, he is.

  "What are you?" he whimpers. "What kind of monster are you..."

  "I'll show you," I say, without a trace of emotion. I call back through the open door, "All right, in here now."

  Ozgood troops into the room, hunched over with a coil of rope on his shoulder, his face now transformed into that of a gleeful and demented torturer. He is followed by Drake, jiggling his keys to the cell, and followed, in turn, by Langley, who carries the smoking brazier in which is buried the red-hot poker.

  "We will first open the cage, then strip him, and then tie him to the chair. Then we'll get started. Come on, let's get this done."

  Luce gapes at us as Drake singles out a key and puts it in the lock. He looks at my expressionless face. He looks at the hot poker. He looks at Ozgood, who looks at him and giggles and drools.

  "Wuh ... wuh ... wait ... I'll tell you everything I know."

  I go up to take a turn about the deck to clear my head. I look out toward the west, hoping soon to see Robin and the prize crews returning. I open and close my right hand several times to get the cramps out of it. I had spent an hour sitting next to the cell, writing down what Luce had to say. He did have lots to say—Better the noose back in England than what

  the fiendish Captain Jacky Faber, Piratical Scourge of the Coast of France, had in store for you today, hey, you poor fool?

  I pull the kerchief off my head and let the breeze blow through my hair. I don't like spies and sneaky stuff, and I didn't enjoy doing what I just did, but I felt it had to be done. As usual, the sight of the sea and sky and scudding clouds soothes my mind, if not completely scrubbing my soul free from guilt.

  I shake my head free of these thoughts and go see that things are all well with the quarterdeck watch, and then I go back toward my cabin. I must make my final preparations. Maybe a little snack, a glass of wine. That was hot work today.

  When I enter, I'm startled to see Higgins standing there holding a razor. There is a bucket of hot, steaming water placed next to a chair, and the washstand has on it a shaving mug and brush all soaped up and foamy. He strops the razor back and forth on a belt that is hung on a hook by the washstand. Always wondered what that hook was for, and now I know ... but what? He's going to shave himself in my quarters?

  I should have known better.

  "Your ankles, Miss. We must do something about them. If you would take off your trousers and sit down?"

  He notices my lifted eyebrows.

  "The Misses Hollingsworth, Esther and Ruth, and other young ladies in Lord Hollingsworth's household. I used to perform this task for them."

  I take off my jacket and drop my trousers and sit down. I pull my drawers up over my knees and put my left foot in the bucket. He kneels down and takes the shaving brush and soaps it up and applies it to my ankle and calf. It feels wondrous good, and it won't hurt my feet any to get washed, either.

  He gives the razor a few more sharpening swipes and then sets to work. He is very skilled and is soon done.

  It was not at all unpleasant.

  "Now if you would remov
e your shirt and lift your right arm?"

  What?

  "If we are going back into Society, Miss ... The new fashions, you know, will require it."

  "Higgins, you gotta know I ain't much of a lady."

  "You'll do, Miss. You'll do just fine."

  I doff my shirt and lift my right arm.

  Newly hairless in some parts, I have my three senior officers, Jared, Harkness, and Drake, to dinner. We have eaten and are well into the wine when I ask Higgins to bring over a certain tray. There are four leather bags on it.

  I take the three smaller bags and toss one in front of each of them. The bags clink and the men pick them up and heft them. They know what they are.

  "This is the money we have taken from the passengers and captains of the prize ships. We do not know what the Prize Court will do and I want you to be rewarded for your loyalty. We all know I could not have done this without the help of you three.

  "You will keep this secret—what the Admiralty doesn't know won't hurt it. This larger bag, I want divided up amongst the crew, so they will at least have something to jingle in their pockets when next they hit port. Tomorrow is Sunday, and I intend to hold Church. We will have inspection, and then we will divide up these spoils. Agreed?"

  All three pouches disappear inside jackets.

  Jared, of course, has to grin his cocky grin at me. "The Captain of L'Emeraude was right, Captain. You do have the heart of a pirate."

  I take a sip of wine and let that go, mainly 'cause he's right.

  I see Peter Drake regarding me for a long while. "What is it, Peter?" I ask.

  "Do you really believe the Admiralty will give you a Captain's share?"

  "I am not so stupid, as I hope you know by now. No, and here is how I intend to take my rightful share."

  And then I lean in and tell them.

  Chapter 21

  I'm not halfway through my morning eggs when I hear the call go out, "Sail ho! Two points on the port quarter!"

  I grab my long glass and rush outside. Port side! We're on the northern leg of our patrol so that means the side toward Britain! Maybe...

  I shoot up to the foretop, scattering ship's boys to the outer edges, and train my glass. It is a small cutter ... getting closer ... closer ... is that a midshipman's jacket on that man standing by the mast? Can't quite see...

  "What is it, Captain?"

  "Don't know yet, Tucker, but I hope ... Yes!" I exult. It's Robin and the prize crews! I slide back down to the deck.

  "I'll be below, Jack," I say to Mr. Harkness, who has the watch. "Send word to me when they are alongside!"

  Higgins stands next to the remains of my breakfast.

  "Higgins! We must prepare! This is our last day aboard!"

  He is calm and pulls out my chair.

  "Plenty of time for that, Miss. For now, you must finish your breakfast."

  ***

  I stuff down the breakfast and then open my drawer. I take out the packet of papers concerning the spies and say, "You must wrap these in oiled paper and then oilskins. You must guard them with your life, Higgins, as they are the most valuable thing we have, even more valuable than this." And with that I pull out Captain Scroggs's money bag and thrust it into his hands.

  He takes it, but says nothing, he only nods, but I think I see emotion writ on his face, that I would trust him with such wealth.

  "Hurry! Not a moment to lose!"

  "Now, Miss. We have plenty of time. You take care of your duties and I will take care of mine."

  "Mr. Raeburne! You could not be more welcome! Come, tell me the news!" I say as he comes over the side and we go down into the cabin.

  Robin storms into the room and puts his arm around my waist and twirls me around and then bends me over backwards and brings his face down toward mine ... and then he notices that Jared, Harkness, and Drake are standing in a line beside the table, and Higgins is pulling out a chair for me to sit in. Robin looks hard at me and then lifts me back up to my feet.

  "Harrumph," he says, and bows, all red in the face. "Forgive me. I hope I did not give offense."

  "None taken," says I briskly, sitting down. Higgins pulls out the chairs and seats Robin and the others.

  Jared looks at Robin with ill-concealed contempt, the disdain a self-made man feels for the man born to wealth and privilege. Were it not for the fact I was here, that feeling would never have been shown outright, but ... I give Jared a look and a kick under the table.

  "So," I say, clasping my hands together and placing them on the tabletop in a schoolgirl way. "We have all of us here together. What news, Robin?"

  Robin glares at Jared and says, "All of the prizes and their cargoes have been registered with the Prize Court. As always, there are problems—you have stepped on some toes, Jacky, make no mistake about it."

  I do not miss the use of my first name. Neither do the others.

  "However," he continues, "I have engaged the services of a lawyer well known to my family who will represent us to the best of his ability. I have every reason to hope for the best."

  Glances around the table. For a bunch of common sailors, they are well versed in the ways of the world. I am glad of my packet of letters.

  "You have done well, Mr. Raeburne. A glass of wine with you. To Robin Raeburne, for having gone off and done a thankless task, while we had all the fun!"

  "Hear, hear!" say all and raise and drain their glasses. Robin is not fooled. He does not exactly glower at me, but he doesn't really beam, either.

  "Now," I say, and lean forward, "this is the plan of the day. We are going to release the French crews ashore. Mr. Drake, I want you to handle that—and be careful, the prisoners are quite testy by this time. At noon, I am going to send a boat off to the Flag telling them of the situation. We will then muster the men for Inspection. After that, I have some things I wish to say to them and we will then go to holiday routine.

  "By tomorrow morning the Flag will have had time to run around in circles and finally decide on a new Captain and some new regular officers for the Wolverine and send them over ... no, no ... we knew this could not last forever and this is the perfect time to end it. We will muster the crew again and have a Change of Command, and I will leave the ship. I will go back to London and continue Robin's good work in securing for us and the crew the prize money we so richly deserve. That is all. Anything else? Good, then. Let's get on with it."

  Sub-Lieutenant-at-Arms Drake brings the first batch of prisoners out into the air. There are at least thirty pistols trained on them as they crawl down the netting and get into the boat.

  I had previously gone down into the hold, dressed in my full rig with pistols, headband, and sword, and addressed them in French. I told them they are not going to be taken to England to be hanged, but instead will be put back on French soil. Some listen in stony, disbelieving silence, some fall to their knees in gratitude for their lives. I tell them we will take them over in three shifts, that being the capacity of our two boats. They will be placed on the spit of land that sticks out into the sea and all must wait there till the last of them are landed. The last ones to be landed will be the Captains and Mates, and they will be put on their knees and shot through the head if the terms of the release are not observed to the letter by those on shore. Vous me comprenez?

  It seems they do.

  I go to visit the miserable Mr. Luce in his cell.

  "I am releasing the French crews this morning."

  The doomed man sighs and nods, not lifting his head.

  "Do you have a wife?"

  He nods.

  "Do you wish to write her a last letter?"

  He nods again.

  Now it is my turn to sigh and drop the farce. "You were not a very good spy, Mr. Luce. In fact, you were pathetic. Did you know the whole torture thing next door was a sham? That Kopp was killed cleanly in the taking of the ship he was on, killed by one of my men when he drew a bead on me?"

  He looks up, incredulous.

  "
I am going to put you ashore with the others." His mouth drops open. "Do not think I am doing it for you, as I am not—I hate spies of any stripe, French or British—spies make friends with people and gain their confidence and love, and then betray those very same people. It turns my stomach to think of it."

  He looks up with a glimmer of hope in his eye. I continue.

  "No, I am doing it for myself. I do not want your death on my head. I do not want you joining the host of ghosts who line up at night to destroy my sleep."

  I pause and then dig a coin out of my pocket. It is a small gold coin, French, and it has about the worth of an American ten-dollar gold piece. I flip it in the air to him. It lands in his lap.

  "Take that," I say, "and take your wife and run away, run away as far as you can, for when the French spies learn how much you have told me, your life will not be worth a farthing. I suggest Italy. America. Or Russia. Anywhere but France or England, for count on it, the Admiralty shall know your face."

  I hold up the charcoal portrait I had done of him. It's a very good likeness. He blanches and nods.

  The prisoner transfer goes smoothly. We do not have to shoot any Captain or Mate. Both the Wolverine and I are heartily glad to be rid of them. Standing in the rigging, with my glass to my eye, watching them finally scatter, I wonder if they will tell tales of the Gallant Female British Officer.

  Nay, no chance. There will be tales of the Cruel Girl Pirate, if anything.

  The Bo'sun blows the whistle and Eli beats the drum and the men go to quarters for Inspection, and while they are doing it, I write the letter to the Flag.

  Commodore Shawcross

  Squadron Fourteen