The Wake of the Lorelei Lee

by L. A. Meyer

  The escort ship falls off to wait several hundred yards off. Again the lens flash—seems to come from their quarterdeck. Hmmm . . .

  We grow quite close to the Cerberus now, and the sails on both ships are slacked. Grappling hooks are thrown across, and we are drawn together. The mainmast spars touch, leaving a scant ten feet of water between our hulls.

  “Ahoy, Captain Laughton!” cries this Griswold of the Cerberus.

  “Ahoy, Captain Griswold,” replies Old Gussie. “I trust you’ve had a pleasant voyage?”

  “Not as pleasant as you, I see . . .”

  Many members of the petticoat Crews are festooned about the decks and in the rigging.

  Griswold continues. “So, why do you not trade several dozen of yours, for an equal number of ours? They are all going to the same place.”

  Captain Laughton spies me up above, and he calls out, “What say you, Jacky? What thinks our fierce little pirate? Should some of you ladies go off? I am sure there will be much profit to be made.”

  I gaze down at the Cerberus’s crew’s lusty faces and say, “I think we are quite content where we are, Sir.”

  “Well, then, Captain Griswold, Mrs. Higgins has spoken, and you have your answer. You keep yours, and I’ll keep mine.”

  “All right, but how about twelve of mine for six of yours?”

  “Nay, Lemuel, a contract is a contract, and I wish to continue working for the good old East India Company. So let us peel off, Mr. Seabrook, and we’ll continue on our way. Lemuel, I look forward to sharing a glass with you in Sydney. Cheerio.”

  I think I hear a growl from the Cerberus’s Captain.

  “I see you have a man strapped to the grating,” observes Captain Laughton, with scorn in his voice.

  “Right. We are conducting punishment. That man led a riot, which we had to put down most vigorously.”

  “We do not often have to resort to that sort of thing here.”

  “True, but you have a much . . . softer sort of convict than do we. Sometimes these convicts of ours are much in need of . . . correction.”

  Man on grating? What . . . ?

  I swing my glass over to look at the men gathered on the Cerberus’s deck, and . . .

  My God! It’s my old Emerald crew! There’s Arthur McBride, and Farrell, all in chains . . . and . . . there’s Ian McConnaughey . . .

  I stand gasping.

  Mairead looks at me curiously. “Jacky, what’s the matter?”

  Dare I show her? Yes, I must, I must . . . She has to know that he is still on this Earth and is all right . . .

  I pass the glass to her and say, “Look down there . . . third man on the left, next to the rail . . . and steady now, girl.”

  Wondering, she takes the glass and holds it to her eye. As she scans the deck, I slip my arm around her expanding waist and wait to hold her fast for I know what is coming.

  She jerks, and then screams, “Ian! Husband! Oh, Lord!”

  Ian’s head jerks up. “It’s Mairead,” he shouts. “Dear girl!”

  She tries to free herself of my grip, but I do not let her go.

  “Mairead!” I hiss in her ear. “You cannot go over there! You’ll be in great danger! That crew hasn’t seen a woman in a long time! They’ll pass you around!”

  “I dinna care! Ian’s there!”

  “And Jacky, too, up there!” shouts Arthur McBride, pointing a manacled hand up at us. “Fletcher! It’s your Jacky!”

  Fletcher? What . . . ?

  The man tied to the grating lifts his head and cries out . . .

  “JACKY!”

  Jaimy! Oh, dear God, it’s Jaimy!

  I release Mairead, and she is off across the spar and into the rigging of the other ship, and then down the ratlines, and I am right behind her. We plunge down to the deck and head for our lads.

  “Grab them!” shouts Captain Griswold, and rough hands are put on us. Enraged beyond all thought, I put teeth, fingernails, fists, and knees to good use and manage to get to Jaimy’s side.

  He lifts his face and whispers, “Jacky . . . I . . .” and he can say no more.

  I cover his poor face with kisses and run my hands across his bloody back. “Oh, Jaimy, how could they do this to you? The bastards, I’ll—”

  Then I am torn away from him.

  “Give them back, Lemuel,” demands Captain Laughton, no longer bantering, as I am held back, panting, wild with fury. I hear sounds of struggle and Mairead screaming.

  “But, Gussie, they came over of their own free will, didn’t they?”

  “Give them back, Captain Griswold,” growls our Captain, tersely. “I remind you that we have guns, and you do not.”

  Captain Griswold considers this and wisely accedes. “Very well, keep your ship of whores. First, however, we have a bit of unfinished business. We were conducting punishment and now we shall let it proceed. Hold the female right there, so that she may clearly see.”

  I am held fast, next to the grating.

  “Good. Now administer the remaining six lashes,” says Captain Griswold. “And add six more for the interruption.”

  I am forced to watch as they do it. After they finish whipping him, and Jaimy’s back is even more of a bloody mess, and I have vomited out the contents of my stomach, Captain Griswold motions to the men holding me, and sneers, “Let her go to give that bleeding carcass a goodbye kiss. She seems to be fond of it. It’ll probably be the last one it shall get in this world.”

  I’m released, so I stumble over beside Jaimy and put my hands on him, to whisper in his ear, “I swear, Jaimy, by the blood that is on my hands, that they shall pay for this. I swear it!”

  He looks at me through pain-crazed eyes but manages to nod. While I am holding him to me, I slide my shiv out of my sheath and down into his boot without anyone seeing. I can see he needs it more than I do.

  “I repeat, send the girls back, Griswold. Mr. Seabrook, perhaps we shall have to man the guns after all.”

  “Very well, Laughton,” answers Griswold. “Rest assured, though, that the Company shall hear of this.”

  Then he turns rudely away. “Throw the baggage over,” he orders. “Here’s two more of your poxy whores, Laughton, cleaner than when they arrived. Topmen! Aloft to make sail!”

  As I am torn from Jaimy, I take one last look at his anguished face, and then I am thrown over the side. I hit the water hard, on my back, and as I resurface, I see Mairead come hurtling down.

  The two ships throw off the grappling hooks and move apart. I swim over to the struggling Mairead and pull her to the surface.

  Holding her, I tread water and manage to keep her face above its surface. There is the sound of a boat being lowered and men calling out to us. It is Monk and Suggs who haul us back aboard the Lorelei Lee, where we stand dripping with water, hatred, misery, and fury.

  Part IV

  Chapter 45

  And so we plow on and on, out of the Strait of Malacca and into the South China Sea.

  I’ve been a wreck for several days, but I get over it and try to lend Mairead some cheer—“At least we know where our lads are, Mairead,” I say, to give comfort to her as well as to myself. “At least we know that, and we know we will see them again, since we’re all headed for the same place. We’ll figure out what to do when we get there. Now, come, let us be cheerful. We are expected to perform in the Captain’s cabin tonight—shall we sing dirges, or shall we be gay? Good! That’s my girl.”

  Mairead’s belly continues to swell. We have sewn her a new, more blousy, Powder Monkey top, and we make a great fuss over her. She smiles and often places her hand on that belly and looks off in the distance to where she last saw Ian, her husband and the father of her child.

  Sumatra, Batavia, Malaysia, Borneo, Java . . . My mind spins with all the exotic places we have passed by and sometimes visited. Eventually, I am allowed out on land again, which I find most gratifying. I continue my studies of the local flora and fauna and am putting together a box of butterflies for
Dr. Sebastian, as I know they are his passion.

  We cross the equator again, but poor Ravi is the only Pollywog to be initiated. Since he is the only one, it is kept simple. He is made to kiss the Captain’s ring, and then he is stripped down and a rope is tied about his waist. “You sahibs going to use poor Ravi as fish bait? Oh, no, Sirs, please!”

  His tormenters are unmoved. “Shut yer gob, boy. Even a heathen wog has got to rub the tits of the Lorelei or he hain’t no true member o’ the crew.” Ravi trembles but does it. Then he is dipped in the sea and brought sputtering back aboard, a newly christened Shellback.

  We visit the port of Singapore at the lower tip of the Malay Peninsula. It used to be Portuguese, then it was Dutch, now it belongs to the East India Company, which is to say, the British.

  We are in bed, preparing to sleep, when I ask, “Why was that place fought over so much, Higgins?”

  “Probably for the crime of being a very nice little port in exactly the right place, from the powers-that-be point of view.”

  “But why so many overlords to that little port? Why did it change hands so much? Why did not one of them hold it?”

  Higgins considers, and I know he is looking up in the darkness. Then he says, “From my reading of history, when it comes to lands and the people who live upon them, it is very easy to conquer those people when one has superior armament, more soldiers, and more will. But, on the other side of the coin, it is also very hard to hold those people and their ancestral lands beyond the initial victory. People never forget when harm has come to their native land and to their kin. I believe Monsieur Napoleon will someday find that out to his chagrin. As will our own John Bull.”

  “You are so wise, Husband John.”

  I hear him chuckle deep in the broad chest upon which my head rests.

  “No, not wise. Not at all. I am merely an observer of things as they lie in this world.”

  “Do you observe me?”

  “Oh, yes, Miss, I certainly do.” He laughs. “And believe me, you are quite an education. More than all the kings and queens and all the would-be masters of the world.”

  “Me? Surely you jest.”

  “Who was it who brought down Troy, then?”

  I give a snort at that. “Not me, but thank you, Higgins, even though you think more of me than I deserve. I am certainly not anything like the Helen.”

  “Till another such as she comes along, Miss, you will do quite nicely. To sleep with you now.”

  I snuggle in and sigh deeply, and Higgins knows what I am thinking about, yes he does . . .

  “Miss, you do know what could have happened to Mr. Fletcher, back in London?”

  “Yes, a firing squad on some quarterdeck if they had wanted to lend him some deference for his being Lieutenant in the Royal Navy and to accord him an honorable soldier’s death, rather than hanging him in a rough, common, disgraceful noose. Yes, I know what could have happened, and I am grateful that it did not, in spite of what I saw that day. Yes, I know . . . Thank you, Higgins, for your comfort.”

  Good night, Jaimy.

  Chapter 46

  Jaimy Fletcher

  Onboard Cerberus

  No Longer Bereft of Hope

  Jacky . . .

  Yes, my back burns, and it burns like a hundred fires, but that is nothing compared to the fire in my heart, having seen you this day. The pain of the lashes was lessened by your loving touch, my raging mind gentled by your sweet kiss, my confusion soothed by your gift.

  What gift, you ask? In the gloom of our cell, after I had been brought back down and all of our jailers had left, I reached into my boot and drew out that lovely, deadly knife that you had placed there, and held it up before my now hopeful and ready crew—your shiv, with the cock’s head you carved on the hilt, grinning evilly at us. It seems to wink at me and to ask, “How many notches are there on my hilt now, Jaimy? Two, four, six? Will there be more?”

  Oh, yes, there will be, count on it, Cock! The flogging was a cheap price to pay to get you. With you we can fashion more weapons, with you we shall throw off our shackles or die in the attempt!

  Thank you, Jacky.

  I am your bloody, but unbowed,

  Jaimy

  Chapter 47

  At dinner this night, Captain Laughton waxes quite ribald about the whole incident on the deck of the Cerberus when I saw my Jaimy so cruelly treated.

  “By God, Mr. Higgins,” he chortles, his bulbous nose glowing bright red from the spirits he has already imbibed. “It would seem, from that heartrending display of young love to which we were treated, that your frisky little wife might have something in the way of a tempestuous past that perhaps did not include yourself? Eh?”

  Great hilarity, with fists pounding all around the table. “Well said, Captain, and what say you, Mr. Higgins?” asks Mr. Gibson.

  “Ah . . . ahem . . . well . . . yes, Sir,” replies the impeturbable Higgins. He places a fresh glass of rum in front of the Captain, and another in front of Ruger, who takes it up and tosses it back without ceremony and without thanks to the server.

  Hmmm . . . It appears to me that the First Mate has been getting more and more into his cups as this voyage progresses, and I believe I am not mistaken on that. After a few drinks, he grows surly and his gaze lingers on me . . . and, lately, more and more on Mairead, as well. I think only the Captain’s presence prevents him from being more outspoken in his desires . . . his very base desires. Hmmm . . . I don’t like it . . .

  Higgins goes on. “It seems that most of the ladies aboard this ship would have quite a few interesting . . . items . . . to bring up in the confessional booth, should any of them ever have occasion to kneel in sincere contrition in that sanctified space . . . and my wife is no exception. But she has confided all to me—made a clean breast of things, as it were, and I have given her my forgiveness for her past actions.”

  “A clean breast! Contrition! Forgiveness! Har-har, Higgins, you slay me!” roars the Captain, his eyes squeezed shut in a state of high hilarity.

  I work up a blush, lower the eyelids, and avert the eyes in a guilty sort of way and continue to quietly play my guitar.

  As I strum away, keeping the sound of my instrument and voice well below the level of conversation, the talk at the table strays to a discussion of what we will find in New South Wales.

  “Begging your pardon, Sir,” asks Mr. Hinckley of the Captain. “What can our ladies expect upon arrival?”

  Careful, Mr. Fourth Mate Hinckley, as there are none of us ladies who care to be sneered at . . .

  “Well, I should expect there would be great rejoicing, but with Bligh in charge of the colony, I’m sure it will be a mess,” Captain Laughton replies.

  What? I am stunned.

  “Bligh, Sir?” I venture to ask. “Surely not the Captain Bligh of HMS Bounty?”

  “Aye,” he says, shaking his good gray head. “One and the same.” He pauses for a heavy sigh. “Poor old Bligh. Fortune never did smile upon that man. Despised as a tyrant, yet I know that he was not. In fact, it is known that he hired a fiddler, a seaman who had lost a leg in battle, to provide entertainment for his men on that ill-fated voyage when he suffered that mutiny . . . In the search for bloody breadfruit, of all things.”

  The Captain pauses for a long and most resonant belch.

  “I’ve met him, you know,” he continues. “Not a bad sort, actually. More sinned against than sinning as Gentle Will would have it. My take on the whole thing is that he was poorly served by his junior officers—that Fletcher Christian, for one . . . Met him, too . . . bleeding, preening, spoiled fop. If it’d been me, I’d have thrown that pampered, powdered ass overboard not two days out. But never mind about Bligh. Let us have a song, Mairead. ‘The Galway Shawl,’ if you please. Lend us some cheer, girl.”

  Mairead, after our duets together, has seated herself on the deck, by Enoch Lightner’s side. He places his hand lightly on her bare shoulder and leaves it there. Hearing the call, she nods and rises,
hands clasped in front of her, ready to sing for her supper, as it were.

  “And if that was your young man we saw you clinging to that day, then be of good cheer yourself, for you shall surely see the young hound again,” Captain Laughton continues. “And you may even prosper in the new land. I hear they give married couples, after they have served their sentences, small farms to work. Forty acres and a mule, I believe it is said.”

  “I hope it to be so, Sir,” replies Mairead, head bowed, hands held in a prayerful attitude, waiting . . .

  “I suspect mules to be a rather rare commodity in New South Wales, Sir,” interjects Fourth Mate Hinckley, not very helpfully, I’m thinking. He is not often here, and plainly already halfway into his cups. Be careful what you drink and what you say, Mr. Hinckley . . . “I have heard they put convicts in harness and make them pull the plows,” he continues.

  “Hmm. That seems sensible, I suppose,” muses the Captain, who then brings his gaze upon me. “How would you like to be put into harness to pull a plow, Mrs. Higgins?”

  “I have been in worse conditions, Sir. I am little, but I am strong. And it would not seem at all strange to me, as nothing surprises me anymore.”

  “Ha! I bet not!”

  “Perhaps forty acres and a kangaroo, Sir, would be more to the point,” offers Mr. Gibson, who fancies himself something of a wit.

  “Ha! Wouldn’t that be a sight! A kangaroo pulling a plow! Ha!”

  “I’m afraid it would be rather an uneven plowing, Sir—four big hops to one good pull. Would rather jostle the plowman, I suspect.”

  Ain’t it strange how good wine and spirits make even lame jokes funny? And yes, with all the Mates in attendance tonight, including Army Major Johnston and his Esther, the cabin is quite crowded.

  “How about a carriage and four, to bounce into town. Wouldn’t that be a sight?” continues Hinckley.