Under the Jolly Roger

by L. A. Meyer

  When I am not needed on deck for drills and such, I take to crawling around the insides of my ship, putting my hands on her knees, the massive timbers that support the thinner planks of the hull, marveling at the craftmanship that went into building her—the carefully shaped pegs and wedges that are pounded into her and hold her together—how like a delicate eggshell she is, yet she is able to keep out the raging sea and keep us safe inside her. I go to the lowest deck and watch the tiller ropes slide back and forth as the wheel above me is turned by the helmsman—sometimes just a little bit, sometimes a lot. The ropes, which are attached to a drum at the base of the wheel, come down through the floorboards of the decks, go through pulleys, and attach to the rudder, and so the ship is steered. If anything happens to any of this rig in a fight or a storm, then the ship has to be steered from down here, and it ain't an easy thing. I sit way down below the waterline and listen to how she creaks and groans as she weaves and twists her way through her watery world. To my ears it is music of the finest sort.

  The Emerald is a brigantine bark, in that the mainsail is a fore-and-aft sail called the spanker rather than square rigged. She's a bit too long for a proper brigantine, but with her sail rig she has to be named as one. Besides, I think brigantine is ever so much more elegant than mere brig. A brigantine is a Thoroughbred, a brig is a nag, from the sounds of them. Course, the Wolverine was a brig and she wasn't bad, not bad at all, once she had proper command.

  Higgins serves me my meals in my cabin and he keeps me and my clothes neat and tidy. He also serves Liam and supervises the cooks in the preparation of the food for the men. I invite Liam to eat with me sometimes, for dinner or maybe lunch, but not all the time—I find more and more that I like to be alone, alone in my lovely cabin, alone with my thoughts.

  Our shakedown cruise is over. All the men are now able seamen. The gun crews can fire and reload in under two minutes. The men can handle their muskets as well as any Marine. They are ready to go and they are hungry for prizes. The order is given and the wheel is turned and the Emerald heels over and points her bow for the coast of France, in search of her prey.

  Chapter 28

  "It is a small brig," says Liam, his eye to his long glass.

  "Aye," says I, my own eye pressed into the eyepiece of my own glass. "And it looks like a fat one!"

  He and I are not the only ones looking greedily at the small ship standing out from the shore. Every man on the Emerald is either at her lee rail or in her rigging.

  "Do you see any guns?"

  "No, but she probably has one in her stern—to fire at someone chasing her ... it's not the kind of ship that chases others."

  "Not like us, eh, Liam," I say with a grin. "Shall we go to Quarters?"

  "All hands to Quarters! Clear for action!" bellows Liam, and with great whoops the men leap to their stations.

  I go below to have Higgins strap on my cross-belts and pistols. "Be careful, Miss," he says as he puts my sword belt around my hips and pulls it tight.

  I tell him I will be careful, then I go back up on deck. I make sure I don't show it, but I'm a little bit nervous—this crew has been drilled, but there's a big difference between practicing something and actually doing it for real. This is not a Man-o'-War and this crew is still green. But I hope for the best and shake off such thoughts.

  "Let her get far enough out from the land before we turn to cut her off," I say to Liam. "We don't want to give her room to double back out of our reach." He nods and we wait, keeping our course to the south while the quarry continues beating to the west.

  We had come up to this spot on the coast, which was a bit north of the Wolverine's old patrol area, for we thought that this is where the ships would be forced to try to come out. The Wolverine, with a new Captain, one who doubtlessly intends to do his duty, unlike that miserable Scroggs, ain't going to let any smugglers through. And the Wolverine being about the most northern ship on patrol, this is where they have to come out.

  We have stayed well out from the coast because I don't want to run into any of the blockade ships—they wouldn't bother us, because I have the Letter of Marque, but still, someone in the Royal Navy might start wondering just where I got this ship and I don't want anybody wondering about that.

  "I think she's past the point of no return now, Jacky," says Liam.

  "Then let's go get her, Liam."

  "Topmen aloft to trim sail! Left full rudder!" roars Liam, and men fly up into the tops while others on deck take up the lines to trim the canvas in this new point of sail. The Emerald turns smartly to her new course and her sails shake and shudder till they are brought stiff and hard again. We are heading directly toward the merchant and my heart starts to pound in the excitement of the chase.

  The Captain of that ship must have wondered what we were about when first he spotted us, but now he knows for sure we're after him, for he has crowded on all the canvas he can get up. He is pretty fast, for a fat merchant, but nothing is faster than my Emerald, and the distance between us gets steadily smaller.

  Padraic, standing next to me as part of the Boarding Party, is about to jump out of his skin with excitement.

  It has been agreed that, during an engagement, Liam would con the ship, bringing her alongside the prizes, and I would command the guns and the Boarding Party, so it is me who shouts, "Sullivan! Give him a shot!"

  Sullivan, who runs the crew of the bow chaser, leans over the long barrel of the twelve-pounder, sights, and pulls the lanyard. There is a crack! and a puff of smoke and we watch to see where the ball will land. There! About twenty yards to the right and fifty yards short of the ship.

  "Good shooting, Sully," I call out to him, standing at his gun. "We certainly don't want to hit what we're very shortly going to own, do we?"

  This gets a roar of laughter. Sully shakes his head as if it was expected that he actually hit the target. Good. Maybe those on the prize will hear and their hearts will fail.

  Their hearts do not fail. There is a puff of smoke from their stern, a distant boom and we wait and see the ball skip by our starboard side, in plain view of both Padraic and me. I can sense him quiver.

  I look over at him and say, "A very dear friend of mine, a New England girl, used to quote to me some of the sayings of their Dr. Benjamin Franklin. Would you like to hear one of them that I think speaks to this situation?"

  He grips the rail and looks at me and nods.

  "'Nothing in this world is more exhilarating than being shot at...'" I pause. "'...and missed.' Do you agree with that, Delaney, now that you have been shot at ... and missed?" I say this, leaning all unconcerned against the ratlines and looking at him from underneath my lowered brows.

  He looks back at me and laughs and says, "Yes, Miss. Yes, I do."

  With that I turn back to the business at hand.

  "Captain Delaney, bring her up broadside to broadside as quick as she'll do it. Mr. Reilly, ready the Number Two Gun Port Side and lay one across his bow as soon as it bears. Mahoney, ready Gun Number Eight to put one at his stern when you hear Number Two fire."

  Silence. Everyone understands what they are to do.

  We pull up alongside and I can see the sailors on their deck frantically diving for cover.

  Crack! Number Two fires, and a moment later Number Eight. There is a splash in front of his bow and then another behind his stern.

  He falls off and the Captain—I can see him plain now—pulls down his flag and goes to stand beside his mainmast ... what used to be his mainmast, that is, for it is ours now.

  The Emerald comes up and the grappling hooks are thrown over and pulled tight. The ships come together, and I pull out my sword and leap over onto the other deck. I hear the thumps of feet as Padraic and the others join me.

  The Captain has his sword in hand, ready to hand it over, but when he sees me, he sighs and slumps to the deck.

  What?

  "Delaney, O'Brian, Parnell ... see who's down below! Sully, check out what they're haulin'!"


  The men dive through a hatch and go down below. In a minute they are back, hauling up some people from what they thought was the safety of the hold.

  It is three men and a young woman and it is she who takes one wide-eyed look at me and screams, "La Belle Fille sans Merci! Nous sommes perdus! Perdu!" She wraps her arms around a small child, a boy of about two.

  What?

  I take a step toward her. "Non! You are not lost!" I shout. "Ce n'est pas vrai! It's not true!" I sheathe my sword, but her cries go on unabated, tears streaming down her terror-twisted face.

  "Please! Please do not kill my baby! I beg you! Please do not kill my baby!"

  She looks wildly about, first at me, then at my men on the deck with their wicked cutlasses and then at my musketeers in the Emerald's fore- and maintops—they are there with their guns pointed straight down at the sorry group huddled around the mast. She tries to wrap herself even more tightly about the child, shielding him from the threatening guns with her own rather small body.

  Christ! Just what the men need on their first foray—a terrified young mother brought to her knees in fear for her child. Already I see looks of doubt in some of my men's faces. They signed on to fight, yes, but not this ... Padraic, standing next to me, stares at the woman, aghast. Now the kid is crying, too....

  "Put up your muskets!" I order, and they do it. I kneel down by her side and put my hand on her shoulder. She shrinks away from my touch.

  "Listen to me," I say in French. "Ecoutez moi! No one is going to hurt you or your child or anyone else here. You will collect your things and be put in a boat and you will go back to your land in perfect safety, I promise it. Now, please, please, stop the crying."

  Gradually she subsides into a quiet sobbing. I stand back up and ask Padraic, "What's in the hold?"

  "Wine. Lots of it." He still can't take his eyes off the woman at his feet.

  "Good. I wish you the joy of your first prize. Now, Padraic, take two men and get their lifeboat in the water." It is well the boy has something to do, to occupy his mind. He turns to go do it, and I plunge down into the hold.

  It ain't surprising that much of the contraband I have taken so far has been clarets, burgundies, and Bordeaux—making good wine is one of the few things that we can't do well in England. That and perfume. I run my hand over the crates and read the names burned into the sides. This time the cargo doesn't belong to ... go ahead and say it, I dare you... to Jaimy's family. There. I said his name to myself and I had said that I wouldn't, ever again. Steady down, girl. It's probably because you know he's on patrol not twenty miles from here. That's it. But don't do it again because there's nothing there for you. And, for sure, he ain't thinking of you.

  I go back up into the light to find that the prize's boat has been lowered and the people are in, ready to cast off. I go to the rail and look down at them. "When you get back to shore, you may curse my name to the high heavens as much as you want for the taking of this ship," I say, again in French. "But you must also tell everyone that you meet that Jacky Faber is not without mercy nor have I ever hurt a captive. I am not a pirate, I am a lawful privateer. You will tell them that, will you not?"

  They look back up at me and I know they won't.

  "Cast them off!" I shout, heartily sick of this batch of Frogs. I hop back on the Emerald and shout to my crew, "You have a rich prize, you gang of piratical rogues! Let's have a cheer!"

  And cheer they do, any lingering thoughts of the French woman's distress drowned in thoughts of their prize money and how they're going to spend it.

  That evening I have Liam into my cabin for dinner and to discuss the disposition of the prize. I would have had First Mate Reilly join us, but he is commanding the prize, which is called the Topaz, and which is sailing a hundred yards off our port beam as we both head back for England. It had been decided before that, when we took a prize, we would all head back across the Channel to dispose of it, for we could not spare the prize crews for very long because we were so few in number. That, and the fact that we would have to sell the prize and her cargo ourselves and not just turn it over to the Admiralty Prize Court. Or rather, I had thought with greedy satisfaction, we get to sell it ourselves and keep all the money.

  I slip a truffle down my throat, take a sip of wine, and spear a piece of tenderloin dripping with mushroom sauce off the platter that Higgins has placed in front of us. These Frenchies for certain know how to stock their galleys. Higgins had wasted no time at all in going through the Topaz's stores to find the finest of things for my table. I have tried my first caviar today, and I find I don't like it. Yuck. Salty fishy eggs. The Frogs can keep that stuff, I say. An acquired taste, Miss, says Higgins. I recall that you once did not like olives...

  "Well, Liam. We've got a prize. Where shall we go to sell it? I don't want to go anywhere near London." I hold my glass up to the lamplight, marveling at the rich, red color of the fine claret that swirls about in it. I had given orders that each man was to have a half bottle of the best with their dinner, and, given that they had their usual tot of rum in addition to that, I'm thinking that they're feeling right mellow about now. Which is good. I have another olive.

  "Hmm," says Liam, chewing thoughtfully, "perhaps we should slip up to Scotland. It's still pretty wild and untamed up there."

  Higgins refills both our glasses. "Forgive me," he says, "but if I might interrupt?"

  I give him the go-ahead with a questioning eyebrow.

  "When I was in Lord Hollingsworth's service," he continues, "His Lordship would rant and rave far into the night about the scoundrels that abounded in a place called Harwich. It is a port that is frequented by smugglers and other sorts whose pursuits of livelihoods do not rule out the ... well, slightly irregular. Lord Hollingsworth's estates were concentrated in the Colchester area, which is nearby to Harwich, and I believe he suffered some losses at the hands of denizens of said Harwich. It is likely that not many questions would be asked of us there." Higgins reaches down and pulls the napkin that was supposed to be in my lap from the tabletop and puts it in its proper place.

  I look at Liam for his reaction. Although he knows I have the Letter of Marque, he also knows just how I got the Emerald and why I'm shy about people asking questions as to her origins.

  "It's only about eighty miles from here. If winds stay fair we could be there in three days," he says. He leans back in his chair and considers. "I've been there. It's an active, well-protected port. Before the war it was the main port for mail packets running back and forth to Holland. It would be easy to sell the ship there. And there're several good taverns ... the men would have a good time, without getting into too much trouble, I think."

  "Also, it is entirely possible," says Higgins, "that the Topaz was headed for that very port with her cargo of contraband. We might be able to sell the wine to the intended receivers."

  I feel a smile spreading over my face. Ain't you just the cleverest fox, Higgins, ain't you just?

  "Harwich it is," I say.

  Later, after the lamps are put out and I am in my bed, I lie there looking off into the darkness. I listen to the creak and groan of my ship, sounds which are usually like lullabies to me, but this night they comfort me not, for I cannot rid my mind of images of that poor, terrified woman, begging me for the very life of her child. I pull my knees up to my chin.

  Sleep comes neither easily nor quickly to me this night.

  Chapter 29

  Higgins was right. Harwich is an excellent port in which to do our business—except for one thing. They don't let us tie up alongside the quay. They make us anchor a couple hundred yards out and the Topaz farther out still.

  We don't dare ignore the orders, for when we came in, we had to sail right under the big guns at Shotley Gate, which guard the entrance to the harbor and which we know could blow us all to bits before we could even think about firing back with our puny cannons. The brutish guns sit up in a stone bunker and we looked right down the barrels as we passed, at point-
blank range. Well, that's all right. We'll be good. We'll just have to use our boats to get back and forth from the ship to the dock.

  It also turns out that Higgins was right about this being the destination of the smuggler and it is not long before a meeting is set up between us and the owners of the cargo ... the once-owners of the cargo, and a sullen bunch they turned out to be.

  We receive them in my cabin. They are shocked by the sight of me seated at the head of the table in my officer's rig, but let them be shocked. Higgins, dressed in his fine suit of clothes, sits next to me, pen poised over a ledger. There are four of them and they pull out chairs and sit down. No nice manners here. Liam and Reilly stand next to the wall and all of us are armed to the teeth. I wear my sword and pistols so that there is no mistaking our seriousness of purpose.

  Higgins begins, "We have a consignment of wine worth, in our estimation, one hundred and fifty-seven pounds sterling, which..."

  "Which we already own, you blackguards!" says one of the merchants, his face red and his eyes bulging.

  "And which, I might point out," says Higgins without expression, "you entrusted to the care of a ship owned by an enemy power with the express intent of transgressing His Majesty's laws..."

  The man shuts up.

  "Let us continue," says Higgins. "In consideration of the fact that you once held ownership of this cargo, we are willing to accept the sum of an even one hundred pounds. You will still make a profit, in the end."