by L. A. Meyer
Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part II
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part III
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Part IV
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Part V
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Apologia
Sample Chapter from THE MARK OF THE GOLDEN DRAGON
Buy the Book
Read More from the Bloody Jack Series
About the Author
Copyright © 2010 by L. A. Meyer
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
www.hmhco.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Meyer, L. A. (Louis A.), 1942–
The wake of the Lorelei Lee : being an account of the adventures of Jacky Faber on her way to Botany Bay / L.A. Meyer.
p. cm.—(A Bloody Jack adventure)
Summary: Now rich, Jacky Faber has purchased the Lorelei Lee to carry passengers across the Atlantic, and believing she has been absolved of past sins against the Crown, she docks in London, where she is arrested and sentenced to life in the newly formed penal colony in Australia.
ISBN 978-0-547-32768-6 (hardcover: alk. paper) [1. Sex role—Fiction. 2. Prisoners—Fiction. 3. Seafaring life—Fiction. 4. Orphans—Fiction. 5. Australia—History—19th century—Fiction. 6. Sea stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.M57172Wak 2010
[Fic]—dc22
2010008686
eISBN 978-0-547-50541-1
v2.0814
As always, for Annetje…
…and for Katy Kellgren and the fine staff at
Listen & Live, who so eloquently brought
Jacky to life in the audio world.
Thanks, also, to Elaine Jimenez and her troops
on the Bloody Jack Boards, they who keep
Jacky’s flame glowing.
Prologue
She is beautiful.
She is trim in the waist and young—only sixteen years old—and frisky as a new filly.
I have been all over her, trying to find her wanting in some respect, but found nothing to diminish her in my eyes or in my heart.
I have swum with her in the harbor and felt her bottom and it was smooth and sound. I have thrust my knife into her knees and into all her cracks and crevices and found nothing but good, solid bone.
I have been with her at sea and found her there to be the most amiable of consorts. She was as spirited and wild as any mermaid as we splashed headlong through the waves, a bone in her teeth, and her tail to the wind.
She belongs to me and I love her and her name is Lorelei Lee.
Part I
Chapter 1
April 1807
Boston, Massachusetts
USA
“Must you have your grubby hands on her chest, Davy? Must you? I swear you are just the dirtiest little monkey!” Davy Jones is leaning over the bow and has a grimy paw on each of the girl’s breasts.
The rogue grins hugely, but does not change his grip. “Gotta hold on to somethin’, Jacky. We wouldn’t want to drop her in the drink now, would we?”
“You drop her in, Mate, and you’re goin’ in after her. Tink, take a strain. John Thomas, swing her in and hold her. There. Good.”
“She’s in place, Skipper.”
“All right, pound ’er in.”
Jim Tanner swings the heavy mallet and drives in the thick pegs that will hold the girl in place on the bow, under the bowsprit. Then we all step back to admire the figurehead.
My, my . . . Look at that, now . . . She is absolutely beautiful.
I had hired a master woodcarver to carve her because my ship lacked such a figurehead, and I felt we needed one to guide us on our watery way; and a real master he turned out to be. She is carved of good solid oak and positively glows in her new paint—luminous pink skin with long amber tresses that wrap around her slim body. Her back is arched to match the curve of the ship’s stem; her breasts thrust proudly forward, peeking out through the thick strands of her hair. She smiles—her red lips slightly parted, as if her voice were lifted in song—and her hands hold a small golden harp, a lyre, actually, which conveniently, and modestly, covers her lower female part. When we’d discussed the sculpture, the carver, Mr. Simms, thought it would be just the thing if the piece looked like me, and I agreed. The Lorelei Lee is my ship, after all, and so I posed for him—in my natural state, as it were. All who know me know that I am not exactly shy in that regard. Plus Master Carver Simms is an old man, so what’s the harm? I must say Mr. Simms succeeded most admirably in capturing my particular features, and I am most pleased with the result.
And, oh, I am so very pleased with all the other parts of my beautiful ship, as well.
She is called a brigantine, having two sturdy masts, square-rigged on the foremast, with three fore-and-aft sails off the front and the mainmast rigged with a fore-and-aft spanker as mainsail. She is, in dimensions and sail rig, much like my first real command, HMS Wolverine, which was a brig; but in elegance and spirit, she is much more like my beautiful Emerald, who now sleeps beneath the sea. I like saying brigantine better than brig, as it sounds more elegant. And, oh, she is elegant. I fell in love with her at first sight, lying all sleek next to Ruffles Wharf, looking as if she wanted to shake off the lines that bound her to the land and go tearing off to sea. It was from there that we did take her directly for her sea trials, and she performed most admirably, running before the wind like a greyhound, dancing over the waves and pointing up into the weather like she wanted to charge directly into the teeth of the gale itself. Glory!
I had purchased the L
orelei Lee from a Captain Ichabod Lee, who had named her after his daughter. I decided to keep the name, the mythic Lorelei being something like a mermaid who sat on a rock on the Rhine River in Germany and lured poor sailors to their doom with her singing. So it seems appropriate, somehow, my having been something of a mermaid myself in the near past, as well as my being a singer of songs, though I wish no doom on any poor sailor.
How could I afford such a splendid craft, you ask? Hmmm? Well, that’s where the mermaid bit comes in. Earlier this year I had been sent by British Naval Intelligence on a treasure hunting expedition, diving on a Spanish wreck off Key West in Florida. It was entirely against my will, but my will or wishes don’t seem to matter much in this world. The wreck was the Santa Magdalena, and she had yielded up much, much gold and silver, so much so that it didn’t seem quite fair that King Georgie should get all that loot and that I should get none. No, it did not. I, who was the one who risked life and limb and peace of mind by diving down into those horrid depths to bring up all that gold from the Santa Magdalena. No, I did not find it fair at all, not by half, so I squirreled away a few of the gold ingots—well . . . actually about fifty of them—in the hold of my bonny little schooner, replacing part of her ballast, and after the diving was done, hauled it all up to Boston.
And speaking of ballast, I have in my hold right now the selfsame diving bell we had used to get me down two hundred and fifty feet into the Caribbean Sea. I had the thing on my little schooner the Nancy B. Alsop when we were detached to return to Boston, and since no one was here to claim it, I stashed it, under cover of night, of course, deep in the hold of the Lorelei Lee. It’s as good a ballast as any dumb lead bars, and who knows, it might prove useful someday.
So anyway, we got back to Boston, revealed the golden stash to the astounded Mr. Ezra Pickering, my very good friend and lawyer, and he set about converting the gold into cash, lines of credit, and whatnot, hiding it all very cunningly in various dummy corporations and holding companies, so that King Georgie wouldn’t find out and perhaps be a bit miffed. Clever man, that Ezra.
Hammers have been pounding since the day of the Lorelei’s purchase. We have constructed four relatively spacious cabins, two on either side, aft, on the mess deck, just under my cabin. Forward of them we have twelve regular-sized cabins (big enough for a bed, dresser, and dry sink), again on each side, making a total of twenty-four. Then we have three levels of open hammock spaces, two hundred hooks in each. The upper level, being a bit airier than the lower, will be more expensive, of course. It’s all in what one can afford. Hey, I have swung my hammock in many a dank hold, and what was good enough for me will be good enough for them. I intend to give everyone, regardless of berth, plenty of fresh air and as good food as I can manage. We can carry three hundred passengers, as well as thirty crew.
And, yes, of course, the fitting out of my beautiful cabin continues, the design of which is being directed by my very good John Higgins, second in command of Faber Shipping Worldwide. Never let it be said that Jacky Faber goes any way but first class when she can afford it, and Higgins does not spare the expense.
There will be separate facilities for families with young children and a separate dormitory for young females traveling alone. After they are established in the New World, men will be sending back for their wives and sweethearts, you may be certain of that.
“One thing is for sure, Sister,” I had said to my friend Amy Trevelyne when she had come onboard several days ago to view our progress in outfitting the Lorelei. “My ship shall never become a floating brothel.”
“Are you not the one, dear Sister, who once admonished me to never say never, as it has a way of coming back on you?”
“Well, it won’t happen this time, Amy,” I’d answered with the sure and smug certainty of the truly stupid. “And furthermore—Hello, what’s this?” A cheer had gone up from the dock.
We looked over the rail and found that the new figurehead of the Lorelei Lee had chosen just that moment to be delivered.
“Isn’t she fine?” I exulted, drawing in a deep, satisfied breath and regarding the richly painted figure glowing in the sun and smiling up at us with what, to Amy, would be a very familiar wolfish grin.
Amy’s mouth fell open upon seeing the sculpture, unable to speak. I gave out an evil chuckle and put the backs of my fingers under her fallen chin and gently lifted it back to its proper place.
She regained the power of speech and cried despairingly, “Oh, Jacky, no!” as she had said so many times before.
So anyway, here I am with this fine ship all outfitted and ready to go, awaiting word from my darling Jaimy, back in London, that my name has been cleared of all charges against it and that I am back in the good graces of the King, upon which word I shall immediately set sail for Merrie Olde England and—finally!—marriage to Lieutenant James Emerson Fletcher. Hooray!
Chapter 2
The final carpentry changes to the Lorelei Lee being completed, Amy and I are off in the Morning Star for a weekend at Dovecote, her family’s seashore estate in Quincy and one of my favorite spots on God’s green earth. Because there are no classes on Saturday and Sunday, we have Joannie Nichols with us, as well. She has been granted this treat in return for her not complaining too bitterly about being left behind on our first crossing of the Big Salt. “Now, Joannie, you know that school is still in session and that you must attend. I hear from Mistress Pimm that you are doing quite well and that cheers me greatly.” “Yes, but—” “But nothing, Joannie. When our Lorelei returns, school will be out for the summer and we’ll all ride back across together. Agreed? Good.” Her temper is somewhat soothed by this delightful little outing on this perfect spring day. Her very good friend Daniel Prescott, now thirteen, is proudly at the tiller, and she revels in showing off to him her new ladylike ways, as he delights in demonstrating to her his skill as a true nautical coxswain. All is well.
After a lovely sail across Massachusetts Bay on this beautiful, soaring day, we bring the Star up to Dovecote’s dock and tie her securely to it. Then we are off—Joannie and Daniel to explore the farm with all its charms, and Amy and I to get settled in her room. I know full well that the kids are planning to spend the night together in my little cuddy cabin on the Star, and I trust they will be good, because by now Joan Nichols has been apprised of Mistress Pimm’s requirement that her girls maintain their “innocence,” else they will be asked to leave the school, and Joannie is, by and large, a sensible girl.
After we have stowed our gear, Amy and I agree that a brisk morning ride on this glorious April day—Ah, spring, how I love thee!—would be just the thing to start what will probably be our last weekend together here at Dovecote for quite a while. We don our riding gear while two fine horses are saddled, then we are off.
We gallop down the main road to the columns at the entrance to the estate, and then back by the sea, and then to a place we call Daisy Hill, where we walk the horses to let them catch their breath. I rejoice to see Millie, the black-and-white collie who is, without doubt, The World’s Best Dog, scampering about, merrily chasing the first butterflies of the season—she who was my boon companion on the road to New York, which fair city I never actually reached, and who later saved my very life.
“Is it not just the most wonderful day, Sister?”
“It is indeed,” says Amy. “And it is so good to have you back, even if it is only for a short while.” She gazes about at the soaring clouds and lifts her face to the fresh breeze from the sea. Yes, spring is always most welcome in frosty New England. Amy sits her horse sidesaddle, while I, of course, sit athwart on a regular saddle. She is demurely dressed in a dark brown riding habit, while I have on my scarlet jacket, white trousers beneath, and Scots bonnet on top. Amy’s parents are away, so I don’t have to be especially proper, which is good, ’cause it ain’t really in my nature to be especially proper.
Millie again has a flock of sheep to herd, which pleases her greatly, but right now the sheep are in
the fold for shearing, so she contents herself with herding whatever poor beasts she can find to do her bidding. She cocks her head, smiles her doggie smile, then, barking, she disappears over the hill.
We sit for a while on the top of Daisy Hill, looking out over the deep and, for now, quite calm blue sea . . .
. . . and then I give a shudder.
“Are you cold, Sister?” asks Amy. “We can go back.”
“It is a mite nippy, but, no, a goose must have just walked over my grave,” I say, laughing over the old saying that people use when they shudder involuntarily for no apparent reason.
Then, what should appear over the crest of the hill but a flock of agitated geese, honking and squawking and crossing right in front of me, followed closely by herd dog Millie.
Amy gives a bit of a gasp and I let out a nervous laugh.
“Well, at least I know where my grave will be. Funny, I always figured I’d be buried at sea.”
“Don’t joke about things like that, Jacky.”
I look at the ground beneath my mare’s feet and think on this as the geese disperse and head back down to the barn.
“I’m not joking,” I reply. “But I thought you were a Person of Sweet Reason and not in any way given to superstition, Amy dear.”
“I am not, but still, no sense tempting Fate.”
“It is not the worst place in the world to end up,” I reply, looking out over the broad ocean. “Such a beautiful view it would be.”
Then I hear the sudden pounding of hooves, of a horse being ridden hard and very nearby.
What?
I twist around in my saddle and see a man dressed in a scarlet jacket and white britches explode from a copse of trees and bear straight for us. I reach for my shiv that I keep up my sleeve, but he is on me too fast and I cannot get it out.
Scarlet? British? Still after me? No, it cannot be . . .
The man wears not a hat, but a kerchief tied across his face. A highwayman, a robber, here on Dovecote? No, it is not possible . . .