by L. A. Meyer
By and large, we all had a hooting good time in the water, watching our astounded mates come flying down to join us in our watery hilarity.
Mairead was not subjected to the rougher parts of the ceremony because of her condition and all. I found out later that the Captain had ordered that all those who were with child to be spared the ordeal. I believe Mairead was a bit miffed at this—“I’m as fit as any of ye! Why single me out?”
And yet one other did not go through the line.
And how did you manage to avoid that Pollywog mess, Higgins? I realize that trial would have certainly been too much for your dignity to bear, but I also know you’ve never been even close to the equator . . .
“You do not know everything about me, Miss.” He sniffed. “If you must know, a short, private ceremony was held.”
Higgins, you are a slippery one.
The hatch ports are open to let out the heat of the galley stove, and we can hear the sounds of the normal routine outside—the ringing of the bells of the watch, commands to the sailors trimming the sails, and—
“On deck, there! Sail ho! Due east!”
I am on my feet in an instant, spilling poor Jezebel to the floor in my haste. This cannot be good! Pausing only to plunge into our quarters to grab my long glass and yell out, “Powder Monkeys! On deck now. Take your stations!” I rush out on deck.
A quick glance confirms that there is indeed a ship out to our port side, its sails just showing over the horizon. Throwing the telescope’s lanyard around my neck, I leap into the rigging, and in a moment I am standing next to the lookout in the crow’s-nest with my long glass to my eye.
It is not just one sail! There are three and they are corsairs!
“Battle stations!” I shriek, as I fly back down to the quarterdeck. “Clear for action!”
As my feet hit the deck, I hear, “If you don’t mind, Convict Faber, I will give the orders around here.”
It is Captain Laughton, his own glass to his eye. Mr. Ruger stands beside him.
“They are Arab pirates!” I cry. “I know, I have encountered their kind before! See that one there, he’s flying the Black Colors, under his masthead! And there! The others do the same! They mean to frighten us into submission! They mean to take us!”
“They could be fishermen,” replies the Captain, doubtfully. “Or they could be honest merchants.”
“Fishermen do not come this far out, and if they are merchants, why are they coming straight for us? Oh, please, Sir, turn away and let us fly from them!”
“Oh, very well. Mr. Ruger, bring her right. Steer due west. We shall see if they alter course to follow us.”
“Right your rudder, steady on course two nine zero,” barks the First Mate. “Top men aloft to make sail!” He turns to me. “You. Get your ass off the quarterdeck.”
Casting him a resentful look, I go down to the main deck to get my girls ready, while men scurry up the ratlines to trim the sails to the new course. When the Lorelei Lee falls off and comes to the new course, it is plain that the Arab ships do the same. There is no mistaking their intention now.
Corsairs—lanteen rigged . . . Not usually well-armed, but fast and full of fierce, cutlass-swinging fighters—they rely on their swiftness to get close to their prey so that their swordsmen can swarm aboard and overwhelm any resistance. What they lack in firepower, they make up in sheer numbers. Cannon and powder are costly, but desperate men who will fight for a share of any prize are not.
My girls, as instructed, are lined up down the centerline—Ann, Molly, Mary, and Esther will service the port and starboard guns, depending upon which side is engaged, and Mairead will handle the forward gun. I will be on the after nine-pounder because I figure that will be the one getting the most use.
“Steady, girls, steady,” I say, hoping to soothe any anxiety they might have. “It will be all right.”
As I expected, the order comes . . .
“Man the guns!” shouts the Captain. “Bo’sun, issue cutlasses all around. All women, get below!”
The Shantyman advances to the foot of the mainmast and sets up a booming, warlike rythym on his drum.
“Girls, stand fast,” I say. Then I call up to the Captain, “Sir, we will need these Powder Monkeys if the pirates close with us. Things will get hot.”
The Captain looks over at my girls, standing at their stations. “Very well. They may stay. All others below.”
But there is one who attempts to slightly amend the Captain’s order . . .
“Esther. Get below.”
My eye catches a flash of scarlet, and I see that we are joined on deck by Army Major Johnston, and it is he who has spoken. He is wearing his sword and pistols and a grim expression. I’m thinking he’s wishin’ he had a squad of Redcoats with him right now, and I know he wants his Esther below and out of danger.
His Esther looks to me. I shake my head.
“Belay that, Sir,” I say, puffing up. “She may be yours someday, Major Johnston, but she’s mine now! Better she face her fate up here than to cower down below! All of you! Stand fast at your stations!”
Esther is allowed to stay. I turn to the business at hand. The after gun must be readied. I plunge into the Captain’s cabin, expecting to find men manning the Long Tom . . . and I find none . . . Just the empty cabin.
I put my mouth to the speaking tube.
“Captain! Where is the after-gun crew?”
There is a pause, then . . .
“There was not yet a need to assign—”
“Well, there is a need now! Send down two strong men to help me!”
There is the sound of feet pounding, then Suggs and Monk enter the cabin.
“Stack the chairs in that corner!” I order. “Turn the table over and slide it on the bed!”
“But what . . .”
Christ! What a pair of dimwits!
“Don’t question, just do it!” I snarl. “Then open the port! And be quick about it, lads, lest you wish to feel Arab steel across your scabby throats this day!”
They don’t like it—taking orders from me—but they do it, and the nine-pound Long Tom lies exposed on its track in the rear position. I check it to see that it is still loaded, just like I had left it. It is. The gun had not been fired on those previous days of gunnery exercise. Why mess up the Captain’s cabin for a mere drill? It had not even been assigned a crew. Well, it’s got one now . . .
“All right, run ’er out.”
The two men take the chocks from under the wheels and grab the lines that will move the gun forward. They pull, and the gun on its carriage lurches forward and pokes its nose out the port. The ropes are again tightly secured to take up some of the shock when the cannon is fired. Well, at least they know how to do that.
I peer out over the barrel at our pursuers—they’re coming fast but are still out of range.
When I had outfitted this gun, I made sure that matchlocks were lying by its side, and there they are . . . ratchet bars, too, and a ram and swab, as well as a rack of shot. I smile grimly to think of Davy when I see the “Kiss My Royal Ass” that he had painted on the butt end of the cannon all those months ago. Funny how things change . . .
I go back to the door and stick my head out and shout down the length of the ship. “Maggie! Mairead! To me! Powder! Lots of it! Go in relays! We must keep this gun going till the barrel glows red! Ann, bring me a bucket of water! Hurry, now!”
When the girls scurry back with the powder and the bucket, I go back to the speaking tube and put my mouth to it. “After gun ready to fire, Sir!”
“Very well, fire at will,” comes the reply.
Once again, I squint out over the cannon. The lead pirate is staying off to the right, and my gun is pointing at nothing but open sea.
“Ratchet right as far as you can, Suggs . . . Monk, as high as she’ll go.”
They do it but it’s still not enough. Back to the tube.
“Captain! If you could come a few degrees right till he cr
osses my sights!”
“That will lose us some headway,” comes the reply.
“Aye, but I’ll be able to lob a ball at him right down his nose, which might give him something to think about! After you hear me fire, resume your former course!”
“Very well. Right rudder.”
The nose of the Lorelei Lee begins to swing right, and the barrel of the gun swings toward the target. That’s it . . . Just a little more . . . There!
“Stand clear!”
I pull the lanyard and . . .
Crrraaak!
The gun bucks and leaps back, powder smoke fills the cabin, and I peer out to see what damage we might have done. The aim was true, but the ball falls far short.
“Reload! Swab!”
Monk plunges the swab into the bucket and then runs it down the barrel to cool it so that when the cartridge of powder goes down, it doesn’t explode from the heat, peeling the barrel like a banana skin and killing us all with the hot shards thrown whistling into the air. “Powder! Wad! Shot! Ram! Stand clear!”
I sight again. Maybe he’s close enough now . . . Maybe the first charge was weak from disuse, damp from lying unused in the gun all that time, maybe . . .
Crrraaackk!
Again I look out over the barrel . . . and wait . . . and there . . . Yes! We’ve hit him. He’s staggered!
It looks like the ball fell amidships just forward of his wheel.
“Not so confident now, are you, Sinbad!” I crow. “Kiss my royal ass!”
“Reload! Swab!”
The swab sizzles as it goes down the barrel, but we dare not stop.
“Powder!”
Mairead drops her load into the mouth of the barrel and stands back as Suggs rams in the charge and then the ball and then the wad, and when I put the matchlock lanyard in Mairead’s hand, I shout, “Give us some of that Irish luck, girl! Pull it!”
Crrraaaack!
Yes! A hit! His one mast shudders and falls as I run to the speaking tube. Erin go braugh, indeed!
“Captain! There’s only two of them now! Swing to port and give them a broadside! Show them what we’ve got and they’ll run! I know they will!”
I feel the ship turn while I’m running outside to see that the port guns are ready to fire.
“Steady, boys, steady! Not yet, hold on . . . Now! Fire!”
Cccraack! . . . Craaaack! . . . Craaackkk!
The guns spit out their deadly shot. Not that they hit anything, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that the scum realize that we are not helpless fishermen or coastal merchants.
“Gun crews, reload! Everyone else, to the rail! Wave your cutlasses above your heads as if you lust for nothing in this world but their heathen blood hot on your steel! Do it! Girls, too! Grab a cutlass and wave it!”
All go to the rail and do it, setting up a great halloo led by the Shantyman and his relentless drum . . .
There was a lofty pirate and he sailed upon the sea,
Blow high, blow low and so sail-ed we,
“I am a salt sea pirate, a’lookin’ for my fee,”
Down along the coast of high . . . Barbaree!
For broadside to broadside, a long time we lay,
Blow high, blow low and so sail-ed we,
Till at last we shot the pirate’s mast away,
Down along the coast of high . . . Barbaree!
Well, that ain’t quite how it went, but for sure there’s one lofty pirate who ain’t quite so lofty anymore.
Look ahead, look astern,
Look to weather, look a’lee,
Down along the coast of high . . . Barbaree!
A great cheer goes up as we see the pirates fall off and turn away.
“Go straight to hell, you scurvy dogs!” I exult, as I see them cut and run. “Did you think we had no teeth?”
That’s the last exulting I do for a while. As I am securing my girls from their duty, a hand comes up and clamps around my neck. It belongs to First Mate Ruger.
“Captain wants a word with you, Faber,” he hisses in my ear, and hauls me up to the quarterdeck to stand before the Captain.
Uh-oh . . .
“You seem to know something of naval matters, Convict Faber. How is that?” asks Captain Laughton.
I stand at attention, gulp, then say, “Mr. Ruger has told you something of my past, Sir.” Time for the woebegone waif look.
“Um . . . that piracy thing, which I scarcely believe, anyway. That does not explain how you seem so familiar with the workings of this ship.”
I think on this and see no way out. With a great sigh, I admit, “This ship was once mine. It was taken from me as part of my condemnation.”
“Your condemnation?”
“The Crown seemed to think I purchased it with stolen funds. So they took her and sentenced me to life in the penal colony instead of hanging me.”
“Do you think that was a fair trade?”
“I suppose so, Sir, since I stand here before you with my neck yet not stretched.”
“From your past conduct, the stretching of that neck seems to be only a matter of time.” This from Ruger.
“That may be so, Sir,” I reply. “But I do try to be good.”
That gets me a snort from Ruger. He reaches out and pulls my hair away from my face.
“You see that, Sir? That spray next to her eye? Definite powder burns. This girl has been around, trust me, and I believe her to be dangerous.”
“Hmmm . . .” ponders the Captain. “That explains why the figurehead looks so much like you . . .” He pauses, hand on jowl, thinking. “So what are we to do? Confine her so that all ninety pounds of her cannot bring us to ruin?”
“She has brought others to ruin, Sir,” persists Ruger. “And she—”
“Captain Laughton,” I say, lifting my chin and putting on the Lawson Peabody Look. “I know that you were once in the Royal Navy. I myself was in that same service, first as a ship’s boy, then as Midshipman, and finally as Acting Lieutenant. Do you know what it means when I swear on my honor that I will not do anything to harm either you or this ship on which we stand? Do you?”
“You may get down off your high horse, Miss Faber,” answers the Captain, after some consideration. “We will take you at your word. Just behave yourself. Higgins! I need a drink! This has been hot work! Good work all of you, and an extra tot for all! Let’s have a cheer, brave boys and girls alike!”
Hooorah! Hoorah! Hoorah!
Chapter 36
There is to be a grand night in the Captain’s cabin, and both Esther and I are going. Mairead is, too—she and I as entertainers. Esther is guest, once again, of Army Major Johnston.
“How come we don’t get to come?” Little Mary Wade pouts.
“’Cause you ain’t fine musicians like our Jacky and Mairead,” answers Molly Reibey for me. “And ’cause you ain’t a rare beauty like our Esther, neither.”
Our girls fix us up as best they can—hair is brushed, clothes cleaned and ironed—and we are off to the party.
“Cheer up, little Mary,” I say as we leave. “You’ll be a rare beauty someday, by-and-by.”
When we join the party, Captain Laughton sits laughing with a girl on each hand, one of which, I am sure, will soon be on his lap, once he finishes downing his dinner, and one of which—or maybe even both—will share his bed this evening. Captain Laughton seems to have an endless appetite for virtually everything. I look over at that bed, my bed, and reflect that . . . Stop that, you. It will do no good.
Mairead and I sit, with our instruments, on top of the bureau. It is a generous cabin, but space is limited and we cannot just stand about anywhere.
Esther sits by the side of Major Johnston, looking, I must say, radiant and serenely beautiful. Before the dinner is served, I notice that the pair is holding hands beneath the table and smiling into each other’s eyes. Ah, yes, young love . . . beautiful to behold, no matter where it happens to blossom.
I think back to Mistress Pimm at
the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls and her saying to me, “All my girls make good matches.”
Well, maybe I can look out for my own girls in that way, Mistress. It is true that while yours are fine ladies, mine are convicts, but still . . .
I strum my guitar softly in our corner, figuring I should lay low for a while, considering my rather bold actions yesterday—“Greensleeves,” it is, with my own variations on the melody. Mairead trills softly along on her pennywhistle. Let’s get things off slowly, I figure.
Everybody in this world has a set piece, a recitation they do when called up to offer something at a social gathering. It could be a song, a riddle, a rhyme, a poem, or a story. Anything that the performer thinks will please those around him, and give the person doing the thing a feeling of some pride and accomplishment.
I, of course, have many such things I am able to do, but when called upon this time, I once again recite “The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck,” that poem depicting the heroic death of a thirteen-year-old boy who refused to leave his post in the thick of battle, that I know it will go over big with the officers . . . and with the Shantyman, who had lost his sight in similar heroics. He cocks his head back, as if in thought, and seems to like it.
Mairead pops off the bureau and delivers a fine rendition of “The Galway Shawl,” her clear sweet voice, solo, unaccompanied by musical instrument, or even by me.
Mairead’s own rare beauty has not gone unnoticed since first she came aboard the Lorelei Lee that day on Gibraltar. In this particular setting, I notice that sometimes Ruger’s eye trails from me to the oblivious Mairead, laughing away at all the attention paid her. Hmmm . . . Well, maybe the fact that she is a married woman carrying a child will protect her from any advances on his part. I hope so.
“Mr. Higgins!” roars the Captain, through now with his dinner and leaning back in his chair. “Let us hear from you!”
Higgins has, of course, been in attendance as he always is, directing his assistants in the serving of food and the pouring of wine. After protesting that he is not worthy, he stands, puts his hand over his heart, and recites “All Praise to the Haggis,” a Scottish poem he had apparently picked up in his travels in the north of England and dedicated to a particular savory dish made of sheep’s pluck—the liver, heart, and lungs of an unfortunate sheep—cooked with onions and stuffed in that same poor sheep’s stomach, baked, and brought steaming out to great acclaim from the lucky dinner guests. But not here, thank God. It is well known that the belly of Jacky Faber is made of cast iron, but the haggis goes a bit over the line.