The Wake of the Lorelei Lee

by L. A. Meyer

  Now here comes our First Mate with his jacket of blue,

  A-looking for work for us poor sailors to do.

  It’s “Jig tops to halyards” he loudly does roar,

  “So lay aloft, Paddy, you son-of-a-whore!”

  That last line gets a roar of approval from many members of the Crews, and “Yer all sons o’ whores, you sailor scum!” is heard shouted out, to laughter, from some lusty female throat. The Shantyman turns to my general direction and says, “So give us the last verse if you know it!”

  Oh, I know it, all right, and I sing it out.

  And now we’ve arrived at the Bramleymore dock.

  All the fair maids and lassies around us do flock.

  Our whiskey’s all gone and our six-pound advance,

  And I think it’s high time for to get up and dance!

  And at that I let my feet loose and, keeping up the tune on my pennywhistle, I dance all the way through the last chorus, ending on the boom of the drum.

  There is great applause, and I take some of it for mine, and it warms me. Taking a deep breath, I then swing into “The Sheffield Hornpipe,” and my bare dancing feet are joined by heavily booted others. The Shantyman motions to his man, and a fiddle and bow are put into his hands and he catches up the tune and then the dancing starts for real. And when it comes to dancing, I show ’em how it’s done.

  That double tot at noon along with that hearty dinner has certainly loosened up throats for song and given wings to dancing feet.

  “Oh, capital! Just capital!” exults the Captain, rising to his feet and dumping a miffed Lizzie to the deck. “More! More!”

  The Shantyman puts bow to fiddle again and rips into “When You Are Sick Is It Tea That You Want?” with my tootling right along, playing a counter melody to his straight melody line. After a bit of that tune, he slips into “Dunphy’s Hornpipe” and I do, too. He grins again, and I think he is testing me to see if I can follow along. Of course I can, and at high speed, too.

  We end that with a flourish, and there is a great roar of appreciation for the now quite exhausted dancers and for the Shantyman . . . and me.

  “More! More!” cries the Captain . . . More music, more dancing, more rum, more everything!

  I bounce off the stage and dash over to the quarterdeck, where I flip up the lid of the fiddle case, and—Oh, it is so good to see you yet again!—pick up the Lady Gay and her bow and hurry back to the stage.

  Mounting it, I begin playing opening notes of “The Leaving of Liverpool.” It is a somewhat slower song, and it will give the dancers a bit of a break. Hey, if anyone knows how to run a set, it’s Jacky Faber, by God. “Do you know it, Sir?” I ask the singer of songs who towers over me.

  He does. He lays aside his drum mallets, throws back his great head, and applies his deep baritone to the song.

  So fare thee well, my own true love,

  When I return, united we will be.

  It’s not the leavin of Liverpool that grieves me, love,

  But my darling when I think of thee.

  It is a lovely tune, telling of a poor sailor leaving his own true love far behind as he embarks upon a long ocean voyage. It’s a song I have often sung to myself when Jaimy and I were forced to part yet one more time.

  As I’m playing and the Shantyman is singing, I notice that the young Army major has risen from the Captain’s table and has gone over to stand in front of Esther Abrahams. He extends his hand, and she, blushing, takes it and lets herself be led to the dance floor.

  Hmmm . . .

  He leads her in a stately dance—rather like the minuets I saw being danced at Dovecote. They look good together, and Esther positively glows. A concluding verse from the Shantyman.

  The sun is on the harbor, love,

  And I wish I could remain,

  For I know it will be some long, long time,

  Before I see you again.

  The song is over, and while the Shantyman steps down to refresh himself at the Captain’s table, I keep the fiddle going for the sake of the two dancers. I play a song taught to me at Dovecote years ago by Amy Trevelyne, and I sing it, too.

  Drink to me only with thine eyes

  And I will pledge with mine.

  Or leave a kiss within the cup

  And I’ll not ask for wine.

  They are a bit closer now . . . Another verse . . .

  The thirst that from the soul doth rise

  Doth ask a drink divine;

  But might I of Jove’s nectar sip,

  I would not change for thine.

  Closer yet. I figure I’ll end this little set with “Those Endearing Young Charms,” just violin, no voice.

  Letting the last note trail off plaintively, I see that Major Johnston has released Esther’s hand and is bowing to her. It is plain he has asked her something. She hesitates, then smiles and shakes her head, and goes back to her place with my Newgaters.

  Good girl . . . Never pays to be too easy . . . Let him suffer a bit.

  I’m about to play something else when I hear the Captain call, “You, girl, come up here!”

  I put aside the Lady Gay to bask for the briefest moment in the applause from the crowd, and I give them a deep curtsy in return. Then I go to stand before the Captain’s table. I put on the modest schoolgirl look, hands clasped behind me, my eyes cast down.

  “That was well done, girl,” says the Captain. “Do you play any other instruments?”

  “The Spanish guitar, Sir, if it so please you.”

  “Hmm. Higgins, do we have such a thing aboard?”

  “Yes, Sir,” replies Higgins, standing by. “I believe there is one in your cabin.”

  “Ah, that thing leaning against the wall? Good,” says Captain Laughton with satisfaction, taking another slug of his wine. “Then you shall entertain us tonight in my cabin, if you will.”

  “Yes, Sir, I will.”

  Oh, yes, I will, indeed . . .

  Chapter 22

  I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry I keep repeating this to myself as I rap lightly on the Captain’s door, fiddle case under my arm. But my tears are in danger of streaming at any moment as I am escorted in by Higgins, and I gaze about my cabin. There’s my cozy bed and lovely curtains, my guitar, my table, which is set for eight of whom I will not be one . . . and my bold pirate flag with its wicked, grinning skull draped on the wall. Ain’t feeling very bold and wicked now, are we, girl? No, just suddenly sad at the utter loss of all that I hold so dear—Jaimy, my beautiful ship, my shipping company, everything . . .

  Higgins senses my distress and quietly says, “Look at it this way, Miss. It’s been less than a week aboard, and already you’ve wormed your way back into your cabin. Amazing work, even for you, I must say,” and he gives me a “Chin up” look.

  I sniffle and nod, thrust up the chin, and go to take my guitar from her cradle on top of the chest. Then I jump up and place my bottom on that same chest. I figure I’ll be out of the way here, as befits my status as convict-musician.

  When I had found the guitar that time we raided the outlaw and river pirate nest called Cave-in-Rock on the Ohio River, I had named her Rosalita because of her Spanish heritage and because of her warm, rosy hue. As I tune her up, I think fondly of Solomon Freeman, the runaway slave we’d pulled out of the Mississippi River. It was he who taught me how to coax melodies out of Rosalita, and I wonder how he is faring now, back in Boston. Pretty well, I suspect, knowing him and his talents. Ah well, that was then and this is now.

  As I am figuring out my set for the evening, the door opens and the Captain, along with his guests for the evening, pour into the room. I pop to my feet and assume a low curtsy.

  “Seats! Seats, everyone!” cries Captain Laughton. “Stand not on ceremony! Here’s our good Higgins with the wine! And I see we are to have sweet music, too! Be seated all!”

  There is the Second Mate, Mr. Seabrook, with a Tartan, whom I recognize as Betsey Leicester, on his arm, and there is the Pu
rser, Mr. Samsock, with a girl I don’t yet know, and there is the First Mate, Mr. Ruger. He does not miss my presence, putting his eye on me right away. I do not meet his gaze. The Surgeon Supervisor, Dr. Thompson, an open, jolly sort, whom I have not seen since our first day aboard when we were checked for lice and other afflictions, is also in attendance.

  There are other girls, as well, including two for the Captain, who seems to like to take his pleasure in multiples—one I recognize as Sarah Acton and the other as Mary Mullenden, both Lizzies. Then, through the door comes Major Johnston, splendid in scarlet, who escorts Esther Abrahams into the cabin, to gasps of admiration.

  Yes, the beautiful Esther Abrahams. Earlier, when my girls were getting me ready for my big debut in the Captain’s cabin—brushing me up and dusting me off—I learned from Esther that, though she had refused the offer of jumping right then into the handsome Army officer’s bed, she had not turned down his offer of a fine dinner in the Captain’s cabin that very evening. Smart girl, I thought. Why give up a perfectly good dinner? I certainly wouldn’t.

  I had sent Mary Wade to find Higgins, to ask that I be given my black mantilla for tonight’s performance and that Esther be allowed to wear my blue dress—the one I had sewn myself onboard the Dolphin. At the time, I had patterned it after a dress I had seen on a certain Mrs. Round-tree, a practitioner of a very old trade on the island of Malta. Being an impressionable thirteen-year-old at the time, it seemed like just the thing and I was right. It has served me very well whenever I felt that I needed to catch the roving male eye. Let Esther wear it now and see what happens with a certain red-coated major.

  Since there are only eight places around the table, the girls are set on low stools, each to the side of her male host. Esther, however, is not so lowly placed, but is seated instead at the table, to the right of Major Johnston, and I notice a few covert glares of resentment from some of the working girls. Suck it up, ladies, I think with a certain maternal satisfaction. Class tells.

  Lastly, Enoch Lightner, the Shantyman, enters, head high and regal, and without guidance. He apparently knows his way around this room now, for he makes his way to the foot of the table, touches the back of his chair to orient himself, and waits while Higgins pulls it out for him. Thanking Higgins, he sits. His hand goes across the tabletop and locates his glass. I will find that on succeeding nights, that will always be his place.

  As the glasses tinkle and food is served, I gather the mantilla about my face and quietly begin playing “Plaisir d’Amour,” a French song that was supposed to be a favorite of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, Queen of France. No words, just music, in a rippling-fingered style, and I am content in being only a good dinner musician, unobtrusive, in the background. I’m merely providing some gentle sounds to the general merriment and conversation, just as I had done back at the House of the Rising Sun in New Orleans. Thinking of that place, I do a bit of “The Young Girl Cut Down in Her Prime,” and it seems to go over well, as I hear no complaints.

  Things grow garrulous. “Do you have what you desire, Mary Mullenden?” roars Captain Laughton.

  “Everything ’cept you, Captain,” counters the resourceful Miss Mullenden.

  I perceive that Higgins has been very judicious in his choosing of doxies for the cabin.

  “Have you noticed, Captain, that half of our cargo is named Mary?” asks Mr. Seabrook.

  “True, too true,” retorts the Captain. “Go out at noon and yell out ‘Mary,’ and many heads will turn! Mighty ironic, I must say, considering the original Mary was a Virgin! Har-har!”

  The Captain’s witticism is roundly appreciated, and more toasts are proposed and drunk, and as the laughter increases, I turn to doing “Greensleeves” and then the “Willow Garden,” which is one of the first tunes Liam Delaney taught me on the pennywhistle back on the Dolphin. As I am playing these numbers, I notice that First Mate Ruger’s eyes do not leave me, and I do not like it. I shiver, as I have seen that look before and it never bodes me any good.

  The good Captain gestures to Higgins, then nods at me, and a plate is brought over and placed next to me, and, “Thank you, Captain . . . Higgins . . . Oh, that is so good.”

  Licking the grease from my fingers, I launch into a Spanish piece, “Solo Tu.” I am well into it when I hear the Shantyman call out, “Girl. That is very nice. What is the name of it?”

  “‘Solo Tu,’ Señor . . . er . . . Sir,” I say, momentarily forgetting where I am. “It means ‘Only You.’ It is a Spanish love song.” I continue playing the melody.

  “Are there words?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Then, sing them.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I continue fingering the chords till the melody comes around again and then . . .

  Tú, so-lo tú

  Has llenado de luto mi vida

  Abriendo una herida

  En mi corazón

  There are several other verses, and I sing them as best I can. At the end, I draw a bit of applause from the table.

  “Where did you learn that?” asks Enoch Lightner.

  “In Havana, Sir. Last year. I performed it at Ric’s Café Americano.”

  “Capital place, Havana!” exults the Captain. “We were there in ’92. Remember, Enoch? Before this stupid war.”

  “Well I do, Sir.”

  “Prettiest whores in the universe, eh, what, Brother?”

  “They were that, Brother,” replies the Shantyman. He then adds graciously, “Present company excepted, of course.” This is met with titters of appreciation from the ladies of the cabin. Then he asks me, “How many languages do you speak?”

  “Aside from English, I speak French and Spanish, Sir. I have a bit of Latin, too, not much, and that’s all.”

  At that, putting aside my guitar, I pick up the Lady Gay and lay bow to her to play “Londonderry Air” as softly as I can, for we are in a small space.

  When I am done and am about to go into the next piece, the Shantyman again calls out, “Come over here, girl. Bring your fiddle.”

  I slide off the chest and go to his side. I feel all eyes in the place upon me.

  He puts out his hand, and I place the neck of my fiddle in it. He grasps it and runs his fingers tenderly over her form. Then he extends his other hand, and I put the bow into it. He thinks for a moment and then begins to play.

  It is not a melody with which I am familiar, but it is exquisitely done. I have not heard the like since Gully MacFarland, and I am shamed for having tried to play before him. I know greatness when I hear it.

  After he stops, there is silence, and in that silence he asks, “What is her name?”

  “The Lady Gay, Sir,” I manage to say. “Gay is short for Gabriella, because she is Italian.”

  “Umm,” he says, running his fingers over her form. “Yes, all the great ones are, aren’t they?”

  Thinking of Gully MacFarland’s Lady Lenore, which had also been made by an Italian craftsman, I have to murmur in agreement.

  “Is she for sale?”

  “No, Sir, she is not. You have the power to take her from me, but I hope you will not do that, for she is very dear to me.” I say that with a catch in my voice.

  He gently places Gay and her bow on the table and says, “Come here,” and he reaches out for me.

  I step closer so that he can take me by the arm. Finding where I am in space, he then lifts his hand and places it on my head and then runs it down over my face, his fingers tenderly searching out the hills and valleys of my eyes and cheekbones, nose, mouth, chin, and jaw. His hand lingers on my neck and then proceeds down over my shoulders and then farther yet. I find I do not resent this exploration as he does not seek out the parts of me that males usually aim for when their hands start roaming, but rather confines himself to feeling the set of my shoulders and backbone and hips.

  “You have a lot in common with your violin,” he says, finally. “Taut. High-strung. Yet not lacking in curves. Have you been taken up by a man y
et?”

  “No, Sir. I am very young, and I’m not quite ready for that sort of thing.” Yes, Amy, I know. I hear you laughing . . .

  “What a bunch of horseshit!”

  Uh-oh . . .

  That sudden outburst came from Mr. Ruger, who is plainly well into his cups and can no longer contain his secret.

  “Do you know just who that is?” he asks the table at large.

  “She appears to be a rather small convict who is clever with musical instruments,” answers the Captain, mystified.

  “No, Sir. That”—and he points his finger at my face—“is the notorious pirate Jacky Faber, recently condemned for defrauding the King of his rightful treasure. She is extremely lucky yet to be alive and not to be swinging from some gibbet.”

  “That is a famous pirate?” says Captain Laughton, gesturing toward me. “Why, she scarce weighs seven stone. How can that be?”

  I put on the woeful waif look, full bore.

  “Yes, Sir,” snarls Ruger. It is plain that he is not a pleasant drunk. “And I can prove it.”

  “What about that, my dear?” asks the Captain of me.

  I look up through carefully tear-laden eyelashes. “Many false charges have been laid against my name, Sir, but please know that I would never do anything to harm you—nor this ship, nor to any upon her.”

  “My word,” chortles the Captain, “then we must be very careful of this fearsome beast, musn’t we? Oh, look at her! I am fair shaking in my boots! Har!”

  Captain Laughton slams down his glass on the tabletop and covers it with his hand, so that Higgins cannot refill it, signaling an end to the evening.

  He stands and roars, “Tonight to bed, and tomorrow Gibraltar, by God. And then won’t all the Marys dance!”