The Wake of the Lorelei Lee

by L. A. Meyer

  “Mary Faber,” I reply, standing there in my once proud Empire dress—I would have looked grand in this dress at one time, but now it looks like a dismal rag, nothing more than a shift.

  “Very well,” he says, and writes “Faber” on each of the two disks. “You will pin one of these to your dress and one to the hammock you will be issued. If you cannot read, just memorize how your name looks, so you will be able to find it again. Do you understand, Mary Faber?”

  I hang my head and nod, all forlorn.

  “Good. Now get in that line there, and you will be examined by the Surgeon Superintendent, who is in charge of the cargo. Next.”

  I shuffle along in the line that leads down into the fore hatch. Before each of us get to the hatchway, however, a seaman unlocks the shackles from our wrists—Oh, it feels so good to have those horrid things off—and throws them in a pile.

  “Be good, girls,” he says. “They can go right back on if you ain’t. Now git along.”

  “What’s gonna happen, Jacky?” asks Esther fearfully, in her breathless voice.

  “We’re gonna be checked for head lice . . . and crabs—body lice—and signs of the pox, or other diseases like that,” I say. “It won’t be pleasant, but you’ll get through it. I’ve had it done to me before, and it ain’t so bad.”

  I hear Molly Reibey sobbing behind me. Chin up, Molly, there’s worse things.

  Don’t think about it. Enter the makeshift surgery. Hop on table, drop drawers, and pull up skirt. Most times I revel in being a girl, but sometimes I don’t. A grunt from the surgeon’s assistant, and I am done and back in line again.

  Some of the women are given potions, some are directed toward washtubs. Mary Wade gets her head ducked into a pail of soapy water and scrubbed for head lice. Hope I didn’t catch any from her, but hey, I’ve had ’em before.

  After that fine time, a grinning sailor raises his cap and motions for us to go below. Hmmm . . . In a situation like this, I’m used to being thrown down into the hatchway and not treated at all nice. Maybe it’s a good sign. Who knows?

  We are then led into the hold and given hammocks and told where to hang them. Then we are left on our own.

  “Come on, girls, follow me,” I say, as I lead them through the central passageway and up onto the top level of the main hatch. “Your new home, Sisters. This is the best spot down here.”

  In outfitting the Lorelei, I had taken a page from my time on the Bloodhound, that vile slaver, and raised the two hatch tops eighteen inches and installed rows of open windows all around. Sturdy flaps hinged at the tops could be lowered and dogged down during rough weather or high seas. I did it so as to provide fresh air and some light to the passenger decks below. I’m powerful glad I did, too, seein’ where I am now.

  “Come, girls, over here. See, here’s how you hang your hammock. That’s it. Now pin on your badge.”

  One hook goes to a ring on the outer bulkhead and the other to a similar one on a heavy beam that goes all the way around the balcony, encircling the open dark hold where the stores are kept. There are three more sleeping decks below, which, though they receive air, get very little light. We’re lucky to be some of the first aboard and so able to grab these berths.

  “How do you know so much about this place, Jacky?” asks Maggie, who has tagged along with me and the others.

  “I’ve been to sea before, Mag, is all, and I know how things work out on the briny,” I say. “Now, in the morning, you’ll take that outer hook off and put it on the bulkhead one so the hammock will hang against the wall, out of the way,” I say, showing them. “Neat, eh?”

  It should be, as I designed this whole setup.

  That done, I go to the window and gaze out at the hubbub on deck. Mrs. Barnsley is being processed and not being at all cooperative. Now that I have seen her close up, I recognize her as one of London’s reigning madams, running what was probably the biggest brothel in the city. But not anymore, she ain’t. Her whorehouse wasn’t far from our old kip, and Rooster Charlie and the gang would go by there sometimes to see what we could scare up in the way of food and handouts. And sometimes she would come down to our turf to scout out the orphans in our neighborhood—recruiting, like. In fact, when I was newly orphaned, at the age of seven, only to be thrown out into the mean city streets to die, the girl what stole my clothes on the Dark Day, who I later found out was named Betty, ended up at Mrs. Barnsley’s. She might even be one of this bunch. If so, I do not think I shall renew her acquaintance.

  Aside from running her house of ill repute, Elizabeth Barnsley had her hand in many other illegal scams. Sort of a female Fagin, she was. Hmmm . . . She must have stepped on the wrong toes to end up here. Or forgot to pay the usual bribes.

  After Higgins finishes with her, she goes raging and squalling into the medical inspection line, just like the others.

  “Next,” says Higgins. “Name.”

  “Rachel Hoddy, damn yer eyes!”

  Badges given, and the line moves on . . .

  Violetta Adkins . . . Ann Bone . . . Mary Chafey . . . Elizabeth Gale . . . Sarah House . . . Ann Marsh . . .

  . . . and on . . .

  . . . Hannah Pealing . . . Susannah Pickett . . . Ann Poor . . . Mary Talbot . . .

  I spot a sailor standing nearby and I shout out, “Hey, Mate, when do we get under way?”

  He slides his eyes over to mine, and instead of telling me to shut my gob and go to hell, he answers, in a pleasant enough voice, “Soon as they gets done loadin’ this lot and Captain Laughton comes aboard.”

  I decide to press my luck and keep my eye out for a kick. “Is he a good captain?”

  He barks out a laugh. “Good captain? Aye, girl, a sailor would kill to become one o’ ’is crew, they would . . . and t’ get on this particular cruise”—the sailor looks out over all the girls coming aboard—“he would murder ’is own mother!”

  A seaman standing next to him nods in gleeful agreement and . . . Good Lord, I recognize him!

  I duck down so that only my eyes show above the sill. Who would have thought that, and him of all people!

  It appears that all of the women have been processed, for I see that Higgins has risen from the table and, cargo manifest in hand, goes to stand by the rail. Several seamen gather up the table and chairs, to take them below. Beneath me I hear the confusion as the women are being settled in their berths. I do not envy the sailors assigned to that task.

  An officer mounts the quarterdeck and dispatches the Messenger of the Watch. The boy scurries below, and presently three more officers come on deck, two young and one somewhat older. They go stand next to the gangway. From his bearing, the older man will be the First Mate, and I think the Officer-of-the-Watch there is Second. The young ones are probably Third and Fourth Mates. A man who is not dressed nautical also comes on deck. He must be the Purser.

  A sturdy and rough-looking sailor in Master’s garb, plainly the Bo’sun’s Mate, stands ready with his pipe.

  “He’s here!” comes the shout from the foretop. I cannot see it, but I sense that a carriage has arrived at the foot of the gangway. There is the sound of a coach door closing, and a mighty cheer goes up. It rings from every deck, every spar, every ratline on the ship.

  Hoorah! Hoorah! Hoorah for Captain Laughton!

  Presently a head, wearing a captain’s elegant hat, is seen above the rail, and then the rest of Captain Augustus Laughton appears and steps onto the deck of the Lorelei Lee, to even more cheers.

  There he is, good old Gussie, bless ’im! Hoorah! Hoorah!

  Any thoughts I might have had of rallying a disgruntled crew to mutiny and so reclaim my ship have just been banished. ’Tis plain they love him. Oh well, there will have to be another way . . .

  Captain Laughton is a big man, wide of girth. In doffing his hat to acknowledge the cheers of his crew and the salutes of his officers, he reveals a bald head, fringed with gray hair. His nose is bulbous, his lips thick and sensuous, and his eyes merry.


  Putting his hat back on, he speaks first to Higgins. “They are all aboard and accounted for, Mr. Higgins?”

  “Yes, Sir,” says Higgins, with a slight bow. “The ladies are being accommodated below.” I notice that Higgins has already acquired a “Mister” before his name, though he is but a steward. Higgins does have his ways.

  “Good. I hope they are comfortable.” He turns to his First Mate. “Are we ready to get under way, Mr. Ruger?”

  “Yes, Captain. The tide is right and the wind is fair for the channel.”

  “Very good, Mr. Ruger,” says the Captain, as he mounts his quarterdeck. He turns and, in a great stentorian bellow, shouts, “All men to your stations! Topmen aloft to make sail! All others on deck, hands on the buntlines!”

  Men scurry to take their places, but they do not yet raise the sails, for it turns out there is one more man to come aboard.

  Another cheer breaks out as the man comes across the brow, carrying a long, thick staff. The crew calls him something, but I cannot make out what it is. He is dressed in a black Royal Navy Master’s uniform and is very tall, and his face is clean-shaven, with craggy features—those features one can see, anyway, as he has a white bandage tied across his eyes. He is obviously blind, and he uses the staff to tap his way aboard. He does not bend his back, however. It is held ramrod straight.

  Behind him, a young sailor carries what is apparently the man’s seabag, and over his shoulder is slung a large drum. The sailor proceeds quickly to the foot of the foremast, drops the seabag, and sets the drum up on a tripod. The man in black follows his assistant to the foremast—I suppose by ear—and puts his hand out to touch the drum, which sits about waist high to him. He positions himself with his back to the mast, and two bass drumsticks are put in his hands. He faces aft expectantly.

  “Shantyman!” bellows the Captain. “Get us under way!”

  The Shantyman begins beating the drum head with a slow, steady boom . . . boom . . . boom . . .

  And then he lifts his chin and sings, in a deep, rich, powerful voice . . .

  London girls ain’t got no combs,

  Haul away, haul away!

  They comb their hair with codfish bones!

  Heave away, haul away!

  The land lines are thrown off and the sails begin to rise. The men on the lines come in singing on the heave away! and haul away! lines, grunting as they put their backs into the work, as the shanty makes it easier for them to pull together.

  Liverpool girls ain’t got no frills,

  Haul away, haul away!

  They tie their hair with codfish gills!

  Heave away, haul away!

  The sails are up and they begin to fill. The Captain barks orders to the helmsman and to the men aloft trimming the sails. Goodbye, London. Goodbye, Jaimy. Goodbye, all I know and love. We heel over on the starboard tack and the Lorelei Lee turns her head from the land and points her bold bow south to the sea.

  So heave away, my bully, bully boys!

  Haul away, haul away!

  Heave her up and don’t you make a noise.

  We’re bound for South Austral-ia!

  Part II

  Chapter 15

  Before we leave the calm waters of the Thames, we are fed dinner—deck by deck we’re called down to get in line at the galley. I had reclaimed my cloak from my Newgate pals so’s I can go through the line with the hood pulled over my face, as if in shame. In reality, I do not wish to be spotted, having already recognized one seaman I know and . . . Good God, there’s another . . . and there, standing behind the pots o’ burgoo, yet another! I pull the hood lower and get through the line undetected. Never expected to see those three again, and I don’t know how delighted I am to see ’em. Oh, well, a mate’s a mate, no matter what.

  On the mess deck we’re each issued a tin mess kit—spoon, cup, and bowl. “Take ’em, ladies, fill ’em up wi’ the Lorelei’s good grub, and when you’ve dropped it all down yer pie hole, well, you takes yer u-ten-sils over to that soapy tub right over there and washes ’em wi’ that brush hangin there and then stashes ’em in yer hammock, neat as y’please . . . Awright? . . . Good . . . Next . . . Hello, ladies . . .”

  I sit at one of the long tables with my back to those blokes dishin’ out the grub. It’s pretty good burgoo, I must say—oatmeal mush with peas and some pieces of meat, and a nice biscuit, besides. And some weak tea for your cup, too. Can’t complain, no, and sure better than that swill dished out to us on the Hulk. It should be good, I growls to myself, considerin what I paid for them stores . . . No, no, stop that . . . You’ve got to quit saying that, girl . . . Until you take her back, she is not your ship anymore, and her stores are not your stores. Best to get over all that and stick to your watching . . . and planning . . .

  Figurin’ we’re about to start rockin’ and rollin’ real soon, I get my gang back to our kip to rig their hammocks.

  Sure enough, when we hit the open waters and commence to rock and roll, the conversation turns from excited talk about our new surroundings to moans and groans of the deepest distress.

  In the waning light, I go down to get two of the buckets, placed about in convenient spots, and hand one to Maggie. Thinking that I would be carrying a large number of landlubbers, and knowing the effects of seasickness on unseasoned sailors, I had purchased them for just such a purpose—to be put under the mouths of those who are spewing out their innards and praying for a quick death—for no one wants to clean up another’s undigested meal. I hold one such bucket under the face of Esther Abrahams, who is not having an easy time of it. It’s all right, Esther, you’ll get over it, soon, I promise . . . Maggie, who is a tough one and has seen much more trouble in her day than this, holds her pail under the nose of Mary Reibey, though she herself is a bit green about the gills. We get everybody into their hammocks and reasonably comfortable and then I climb gratefully into mine. It has been a long and spiritually wrenching day.

  Swinging there, I think of Jaimy. God, I hope and pray that they are fair to you—you who are so noble and upright but, because of me, are in a lot of trouble. I’m so sorry, Jaimy. I just thought things would work out different . . . Please, if you can find it in your heart, forgive me.

  Goodnight, love.

  When morning comes, the ocean is as slick and calm as a lake, with a soft breeze from the northwest, putting the Lorelei Lee on a sweet quarter-reach, her sails full and stiff and a neat bone in her teeth, and leaving a fine wake. Because of the gentleness of the day, most of the cargo has recovered from their bouts with the mal de mer. I noticed that the flaps did not come down last night—this sure ain’t the Bloodhound . . .

  We have breakfast—burgoo again, and good—and then, after all are fed and the mess kits washed and stashed, a sailor sticks his head in the hatch and booms out, “Awright, ladies! All of yiz topside now! The Captain wants to talk to yiz, and it ain’t good to keep the Captain waitin’!”

  I gather my little brood and, followed by all of the others, we tromp up the gangway and out onto the deck, blinking against the bright sunshine.

  “Get yerselves up on the hatch top,” says this seaman, who I now see is the Bo’sun, complete with whistle and knobby and all. He also has a sturdy rod stuck in his waistband. “Line up as best you can . . . That’s it . . . Be quiet, now . . .”

  Hmmm . . . So far we’ve been called girls, women, and ladies. We ain’t yet been called bitches or whores or bints or any of them hundreds of other names they got for us . . . Hmmm . . .

  I get my girls, in a line, to the front edge of the hatch and look up to see Captain Laughton on the quarterdeck, flanked on either side by his officers, four of them in blue uniforms, one in a gray suit, and one, standing at the end of the right flank, in white. On the left flank there is yet another man, clad in the scarlet uniform of an army officer. The Shantyman stands behind the Captain, his face to the wind, and appears to be looking up at the sails, though he can’t possibly be. The ratlines and rigging are filled with grinning s
eamen, laughin’ and pokin’ each other in the ribs. Ain’t the Royal Navy, that’s for sure.

  “Good morning, ladies!” booms out the Captain, after all are up and generally quiet and presented in some order. “I trust you spent a restful night on the Lorelei Lee?”

  Mumbles and low grunts are heard in acknowledgment.

  “Good!” he continues. “Now, I have brought you up here to recite to you the rules of conduct on this ship! First of all, I shall introduce my officers. On my left here is First Mate, Mr. Ruger, and my Second, Mr. Seabrook. There, in the red, is Major Johnston. He is to take command of the garrison in Botany Bay, and you all will undoubtedly see much of him after you are landed in that place. On my right is Third Officer, Mr. Gibson, and Fourth, Mr. Hinckley. At the end there is Purser, Mr. Samsock, and Ship’s Steward and Assistant Purser, Mr. Higgins.

  Assistant Purser! Higgins, you have been exercising your charms! Bravo!

  “If I, or any of these men speak to you, you are to consider it the Word of God. Do you understand?”

  Another murmur of sullen assent from the assembly.

  “If you do not understand, you may gaze upon that man there.” He gestures toward the man who had brought us up from down below. “That is Bo’sun’s Mate Roberts, and he wields a stout rod that your buttocks would not like to meet, believe me on that. Behave yourselves, ladies, and we shall get along.

  “Ahem!” He clears his throat loudly and then goes on. “Now you know us, and now we shall know you. Mr. Higgins, read the manifest!”

  Higgins steps forward and reads from a sheet of paper. “The cargo manifest of the Lorelei Lee, ship of the East India Line, embarked June 17, 1807, and bound for the colony in New South Wales, Australia. To wit:

  Fifty-one girls, aged ten to nineteen,

  one hundred and sixteen females, aged twenty to twenty-nine,