The Wake of the Lorelei Lee

by L. A. Meyer

  In the dead of night, we whisper and plan. The lads speak of trustable cons who are also able seamen. Each of them reels off a short list of names:

  “Matthews, Burke, Stackpole, all in third cell . . . They’re all right . . .”

  “And Hubbard and Elfstrom in the bottom crew. And Meehan, too. He’s from Galway . . . He’s solid . . .”

  And so on . . . to the actual plans for the mutiny.

  “We must get them through that door, and off their guard”

  “How can we do that? They are very leery of us.”

  “I think I know how, but we must be patient . . . We must have weapons, and can do nothing till we get them.”

  “You noticed the cutlasses chained about the mainmast?”

  “Aye.”

  “Napper will have the key to that on the chain he wears around his fat gut.”

  “Right. We’ll have to get at that when the time comes.”

  “The Weasel will be easy . . . but Napper and Vance will not.”

  “Awful cozy with that Second Mate, ain’t-cha, Captain?”

  “He is a good source of information, McBride. And don’t forget, if we succeed in taking over this ship, we’ve still got the Dart to contend with. She could blow us out of the water in a minute, and she is—”

  There is a sudden rattling of a club against the bars of our cage.

  “Awright, you scum, what youse whisperin’ about in there?”

  “Nothin’, Corporal dear,” pipes up Padraic Delaney. “Just saying our prayers is all, just like any good little Catholic boys. Come, lads, join me. ‘Hail Mary, Full of grace, The Lord is with Thee, Blessed art Thou . . .”

  “Well, knock it off,” growls Corporal Vance. “Bad enough we gotta haul stinkin’ micks around w’out havin’ to listen’t’ papist claptrap, too.”

  The men quiet down, but they are not done—not with me, anyway.

  Presently McBride pipes up. “Will ye be tellin’ us a joke now, Captain Fletcher, to be improvin’ the morale of your present troops?”

  “I’m not in the mood, McBride,” I growl—plus I’m just not good at that sort of thing.

  “Well, I’ll be tellin’ one then, Sir.”

  “Tell it, Arthur,” urges another voice in the gloom.

  “I shall, Daniel, I shall,” says Arthur McBride, and he begins.

  “One fine day last year as I was walking along a path in sweet County Cork, I happened upon a sleeping leprechaun, and I quickly snatched the little bugger up, you may be sure.

  “‘Och,’ says he, rubbin’ his eyes, ‘I guess ye’ve caught me good and proper, and now ye’ll get yer three wishes. But I gotta tell you, lad, that I’m a special kind of leprechaun, in that when I grant you a wish, yer worst enemy will get twice what ye wish for. Do ye understand?’

  “‘I do,’ I replied.

  “‘All right, so what’ll yer wishes be, boy-o?’

  “Well, I think for a bit, and then I say, ‘First, I’d like a million pounds sterling.’

  “‘It is granted,’ says the little green fellow. ‘But ye do know that yer worst enemy, Mr. James Fletcher, will get two million pounds?’

  “‘That’s all right,’ I says. ‘’Tis hard, but I can live with that.’

  “‘All right, done. What’s next? Hurry up, I’m a busy elf.’

  “‘Now I’d like to have the renowned Miss Jacky Faber stripped down to her natural lovely self and put next to me in my bed, so that I might sample all of her lovely charms, at my leisure, for a whole week.’”

  Uh-oh . . . low chuckles all around. I should have expected something like this.

  “‘That means that this Mr. Fletcher will have the delightful girl bouncin’ in his bed for two whole weeks? Disgustin’ to think about, but so be it,’ I says firmly.

  “‘Done,’ says the leprechaun. ‘Now, what’s yer last wish to be, knowin’ as you do that Mr. James Fletcher will get twice what ye get?’

  “‘Now,’ I says, secure in my resolve, ‘I wants you to cut off one of me balls . . .’”

  Great guffaws all around. Grrrr . . .

  I will get him, count on it, Jacky . . .

  Jaimy

  Chapter 32

  Madeira was indeed a pearl. I’ve traveled around some in this world, but never have I been in a more beautiful place—soaring cliffs, blue water and crashing surf, hanging gardens that assault the senses with their heady perfumes, and acres upon acres of the finest grapes. Porto Santos, too, was lovely in the extreme, and farther down, several hundred miles off the coast of Africa, there were the Cape Verde Islands, yet another of the ocean’s jewels.

  I, of course, did not get to see much of these fine Portuguese ports, being underwater most of the time, diving for coins. The sailors on the nearby ships were generous, and I did well. It is profitable work, and I find it great fun. Plus I got to practice my Spanish, as the Portuguese tongue is very similar.

  “Hola, marineros! Tiren sus monedas en el agua, y para su placer, me zambullire para ellas,” I call out from the dock, bouncing on my toes, my bathing suit bottom hiked up as far as modesty permits, and the coins do come raining down.

  The Captain had put into those ports on the pretext of taking on fresh supplies—anyway, that is how he entered them in his logbook, Assistant Purser Higgins reports, but methinks the Captain did not so much desire oranges, lemons, fresh water, and such, as much as he wanted his good, honest graft—his twenty percent skim off the top of the Crews’ take. He wanted to let loose his very accomplished female Crews on the male populations contained on these island paradises—and hey, what’s a Paradise without a few hundred comely Eves? This journey might very well make our Captain Laughton very rich. I sense that he is certainly in no hurry to get to his final destination. And why kick a winning horse? ask I, in total agreement, as I’m not in such a hurry to get there, either.

  We did, however, bring aboard many baskets full of the local rapes—and many barrels of the local wine.

  The three madams dutifully handed over their tithes, and we departed for the Cape of Good Hope, the southern tip of the Continent of Africa. Yes, I had to hand over some, too. The Captain is no dummy, and what’s sauce for the Lizzies, the Judies, and the Tartans, is sauce for us Newgaters, too.

  About a week later, the Lorelei Lee ran into a bit of a problem. The Captain had put her in close to the African shore to take on water from the mouth of a river that had been spotted there. The water had been hauled aboard, and we were ready to resume our course to the Cape. Mairead, Molly, and I were lolling about the foretop, our stint at the washtubs over for now, when I heard the call from below.

  “She won’t come up, Sir,” shouts the Bo’sun from the fo’c’s’le. “She’s snagged.”

  “Put your goddamn backs into it, you whore-son bastards,” snarls Ruger from the quarterdeck. “All hands up forward.” More men rush to join the others already straining at the spokes of the capstan wheel.

  There is much grunting and cursing but to no avail—the anchor remains stuck fast. I run up and look down at the chain, vertical now, and quivering under the strain. The Lorelei is listing to the side in the vain effort to bring up the recalcitrant hook.

  “How deep, Bo’sun?”

  “Six fathoms, five, Sir!”

  “Damn,” says the Captain. “We may have to let it go.”

  No! It’s my anchor, dammit! I paid good money for it, and I’m not going to lose it!

  “Maybe not, Captain,” I pipe up. “Let me have a look first. I won’t be but a minute. Mairead, to me!”

  We both plunge down to the laundry.

  “My swimsuit, Sister!” I cry, peeling off my Newgater’s rig as Mairead pulls my diving gear from under our bunk and tosses it out across our bed there, my solution to the living quarters thing.

  No, certainly my Crew had not gone down to the bottom level, though we would continue to claim it as our own, since Mairead had won it with her song. Instead, we took the space we already had—t
o wit, the laundry, with its big open space, and its wide windows placed there for the dumping of the dirty water.

  While the others below decks slept in hammocks, we now had beds, because I knew where spare mattresses were stored. Sheets, too. “We shall live as queens, girls!” I had announced when putting the plan into operation. And so we did. The forward wall of the laundry was a bulkhead—a moveable wall, which I had Mick and Keefe take down, revealing the storeroom that I knew was there. I asked the boys to remove the cordage kept therein and to stow it down on our fourth level, which they did with a minimum of cursing. “Little busybody, does she think we’re ’er bleedin’ servants?” Some small monetary inducements took care of that. Further bribes guaranteed that the Ship’s Carpenter would collect enough boards to construct bunks for us around the perimeter of the space. Course, being no fool, I had cleared all this earlier with the Assistant Purser.

  Since the door to the laundry opens inward, my trusty wedges see good service when we are snugged in for the night, protected in a way that the other Crews are not, be they on bottom level or top. I had the Carpenter cut the door crossways, Dutch door style, with a shelf on the bottom half for the receiving and delivery of laundry when we are open. That way we get the business, all neat, like, and keep out the rabble.

  Busybody, indeed.

  Being next to the galley is nice, too, for Cookie is generous, and Jezebel comes to visit us often. We have warm water and soap, and so we are clean. With some nice white muslin curtains fluttering merrily in the breeze, we count ourselves to be quite cozy and unwilling to change places with any of the Crews, and that includes yours, too, Mrs. Barnsley.

  Guttersnipe, am I? Just you wait, you old sow . . .

  “And what do you mean to do down there, Jacky?” asks Mairead, securing my back strap and sounding worried. She has seen me dive in the somewhat shallow waters of our past ports and wasn’t all that pleased . . . You could drown, Jacky, you could . . .

  But I didn’t drown then, and I ain’t gonna drown now. “I mean to see if I can do something about the anchor, Sister. Don’t worry. It’s only about forty feet deep. I’ve gone down that far many times. Let’s go. Bring me a towel.”

  And then, goggles and swim fins in hand, I head back to the open air.

  Gaining the deck, I plunk down on the planking, lift my right foot, and strap on the fin. Then I do the same with the left. Ain’t very graceful, or ladylike, splayed out like that, but I don’t hear no complaints. Then, goggles on and fitted to my face, I stand, and for the millionth time, tuck two fingers back to tug the bottom of my suit down over my bum.

  “Well, it seems our little mermaid has turned into a frog,” says the Captain, as I waddle over to the rail. Very funny, Sir. You try walking in these things . . . “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish,” he continues, “but you are welcome to try.”

  I nod and take three deep breaths, hold my goggles to my face, and then jump over the rail and into the water. It enfolds me, warm and clear, as I wriggle down into the depths, following the chain as it disappears into the blueness below.

  Keeping a sharp eye out for any sharks who might be looking for an easy meal of tender maiden, I continue to go down hand over hand, grabbing the big links of chain to help pull me lower and lower. There are fathom markers every six feet . . . there goes four . . . five . . . now six . . . and there’s the anchor.

  Sure enough, one of the flukes is wedged deep in a cleft in a rock—a rock big enough that the lower parts of it are not visible. The Lorelei could pull on that chain forever and never gain an inch. The other fluke, however, sticks straight up, clear in the misty blue.

  Hmmmm . . . Maybe that’ll be the way of this little rescue . . .

  I kick back to the surface.

  “There she is!” I hear as my head breaks the surface.

  “Thank God!” says another voice I recognize as Mairead’s.

  Hey, I was down less than a minute . . .

  “Captain,” I call. “Have the Bo’sun give me the end of a coil of one-inch line and maybe I can free our anchor! Put it under the rail, as you’ll be taking a strain on it.” Wouldn’t want to snap my beautifully varnished rail, would we?

  “Consider it done,” says the Captain, and the bitter end of the coil comes snaking over the side, under the fragile rail. I grab the rope and stick it between my teeth, upend myself, and head back down. When I reach the anchor, I quickly slap a bowline hitch around the free fluke and then dart back up.

  “Take a strain on the line, and if you feel it give, slack off and haul in the anchor,” I gasp, a bit winded now. I wait till I see the Bo’sun and his men wind the line around the capstan head and begin to turn it. Then three more big gulps of air and back on the job.

  I get down near the anchor and see the strain taking hold on the rope. It quivers and straightens out along its length, but still does not budge the heavy anchor.

  Damn!

  I kick over to the rope and lay my hands on it to give it a good shake back and forth. It is as unyielding as iron in my grip, but, nothing . . . No, there! It’s coming!

  I maneuver back out of the way as the anchor lifts, scattering sediment about as it breaks free. The rescue rope slackens, and the hook begins its journey up.

  Hmmm . . . I’ve got some air left . . .

  Ever the showgirl, I dart over to the anchor, slap my rump down on it, slide my goggles up onto my forehead so I’ll look more appealing, and ride up in grand style. As the anchor breaks the surface, the entire crew sees me sitting grandly in the curve of the left fluke, ankles crossed, arm up in the air like any circus performer.

  “Ta-da!” I shout, taking a half bow, as a mighty cheer erupts above me.

  “Oh, capital, that!” chortles the Captain. “Just capital.”

  Eager hands reach down for me, and I am pulled aboard. Mairead comes over to wrap the towel about my shoulders as I toe off the fins.

  “Our little tadpole has saved the day,” announces Captain Laughton. “Or at least a very valuable anchor. Now, what will you have as your reward for that daring deed?”

  I have been waiting for an opportunity like this.

  “I wish no reward for doing my duty, Sir,” I simper. “But if you could see your way clear, us girls would be most glad if we could see you brave men fire off those big scary guns, we would. Though we might tremble and cover our ears, still it would be a fine treat.”

  “Very well, then,” says Captain Laughton, with a huge grin. “Let it be so. Today, for the ladies’ pleasure, we shall exercise our mighty gunnery! Right after lunch! Mr. Higgins! If you please!”

  “Jacky . . . Why did you ask for that as a reward for getting that anchor back? The shooting of those awful cannons? What profit is in that? Couldn’t you have asked for something better?”

  “Aye, Ann, but y’see, there is a method to my madness. We’ve got to find out just how expert the male members of this crew are in the firing of the cannons, that’s why.” I’m wriggling out of my swimsuit and about to slide into the warm tub to rinse off the salt. “We need to know ’cause the place where we are going will be swarming with pirates.”

  I put foot in washtub and then slide the rest of me in.

  Ahhhhh . . .

  “But, Jacky, wouldn’t it be better for us girls if pirates did take the ship? Then maybe they would treat us kindly, and we could escape this confinement?”

  “Nay, Molly, you wouldn’t escape. No, instead you’d be used in ways most cruel and then sold as a slave in North Africa. You do not know pirates as I do—for every gallant Flaco Jimenez and yes, even a Belle Jeune Fille Sans Merci, there are ten low and vicious El Feos. No, for now, dears, we’re better off under John Bull’s somewhat gentler yoke.”

  “And if anyone knows gunnery, it’s this one,” says Mairead, pushing my head underwater and preparing to soap it down.

  I ain’t got nothing to say to that, but I will be watching our lads very closely as they work their guns.

>   After I’m out and dried off and back in my rig, I call out, “Everybody lookin’ sharp in their Newgaters’ gear? Good. Let’s go topside—heads up, chin out, eyes hooded, and shoulders squared. Let’s show ’em. Proud to be Newgaters forever!”

  “Very well, men,” says Captain Laughton from his quarterdeck. “Let us show the ladies what we can do. Cast off the barrel on the port side. Guns two to twelve, prepare to fire.”

  I see matchlocks prepared, while men sight over the barrels. At least the guns had been left loaded. Powder prolly damp by now . . . They should be fired out every day, but I know that’s not gonna happen—costs too much, and who knows where we might replenish our spent powder?

  “Fire when they bear,” shouts the Captain, and the exercise begins.

  Pathetic, of course.

  Number one fires . . . craaack! . . . and misses by twenty yards. That’s all right. Let’s just see how fast they can reload, because that will be the key to a close ship-to-ship encounter. I find out quickly: men stumble over each other clambering back up on deck as others careen down ladders to get more bags of powder. Both groups end up running into each other, both on the way down to the powder magazine and on the way back up, too.

  What a mess.

  Number four misfires, as does number six. Number eight manages to discharge its load . . . craaaaaccckkk! . . . but it misses by a wide margin, too.

  The remaining port side guns do not do any better, and the starboard guns do even worse. Captain Laughton calls out, “Secure from the Exercise of the Guns. Well done! An extra tot for all!”