The Wake of the Lorelei Lee

by L. A. Meyer

  Yes, things get rather bizarre in the way of mess table conversation when one has been at sea a long time.

  “Could you see yourself outfitted for such a kangaroo saddle, Jacky?” asks the Captain.

  “If such a saddle could be made, I would mount and ride him, Sir,” I reply, secure in my ignorance. “Have you ever seen a kangaroo, my lord?”

  “Yes, dear, I have. It was at a fair. In Cornwall,” answers the Captain. “The beast was to box with a local tough. Actually the ’roo did quite well—knocked the country bumpkin down several times to the amazement and joy of all. ’Cept for the opponent, of course. He was quite mortified to be beaten by what looked to be a big rabbit.”

  I’m thinking back to Jemimah Moses and her tales of the wily Brother Rabbit, who outsmarted bears and foxes as well as country bumpkins, and wonder how she would voice Brother Roo. Hmmm . . . Food for idle thought . . . As a treat for the kids at my school—Lorelei Lee Elementary, as it is now called—when they have done their lessons well, I perform some of Jemimah’s Rabbit Tales for their enjoyment. Course I can’t do ’em as well as she does, but my young scholars seem to delight in them.

  Mairead now sees her opportunity to begin her song, and she delivers “The Galway Shawl” a cappella, giving my fingers a bit of a rest, and she does it beautifully. I’ve never heard it better done. She even manages to smile while doing it, and it lights up the room.

  As well you might smile, my redheaded friend, as it was not your lad we saw being beaten to a pulp. But no, stop that—snark back the sniffles and tears, girl, and get on with things. You know that Jaimy’s alive and that’s all you can ask for right now.

  I am shaken out of my reverie by the Captain’s request. “Come, Jacky,” he says. “You have been uncommon quiet this evening. Give us something lively . . . something . . . new, perhaps? Something we haven’t heard before?”

  I think on this and then reach for my concertina.

  “Actually, Sir,” I say, “I have made up a bit of a shanty. I hope Mr. Lightner will forgive me my cheek in this regard.”

  The Shantyman grins and nods, waiting.

  I pump up the bellows, run a few riffs, and then lift my chin and sing.

  There was a wooden maid,

  And on her harp she played,

  It was the Lorelei Lee putting out to sea

  And they say she looks like me,

  Boys . . .

  She might look a bit like me.

  I drag out the “Boys . . .” somewhat to give it a bit of the Jacky Faber touch and to distinguish it from the rather naughty song from which I stole the melody.

  “Har-har, that it does, dearie! A dead ringer for you, for sure!” chortles the Captain. Then I do the chorus.

  ’Twas on the Lorelei Lee,

  Two hundred girls and me,

  We sailed away, with a crew so gay,

  All up for a good long jour-ney

  Yes . . .

  Way up for a lusty jour-ney!

  There are roars of approval, and I keep the concertina going while I call out, “Beggin’ your pardon, Sir, but might I use your name in vain, as it were, all in the name of good fun?”

  “By all means! Sing it out, girl! Sing it out!” I do the chorus again and all join in, and then, with some trepidation for what I am about to sing, I press on.

  Oh, the Captain’s name was Gussie,

  With the girls both brave and lusty,

  He had two full score, yet he cried for MORE!

  All on the Lorelei Lee,

  Boys . . .

  All on the Lorelei Lee!

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Higgins wincing at this, but the Captain bawls out, “Yes, oh, yes! Capital! Go on!”

  I do . . .

  Onboard were two hundred dollies,

  All guilty of sundry follies,

  Gus inspected the lot and found them hot

  Down in their lower quarters

  Oh . . .

  Down in their lower quarters!

  Roars of laughter, another chorus, and I see the Shantyman standing up and signaling for his turn.

  “If you please, Miss, I have a verse to add to your fine tune.”

  I bow and say, “Of course, Mr. Lightner, lay on.” He throws back his head and belts it out.

  When on that ship so grand,

  I got splinters in my hand . . .

  ’Cause I rubbed the tits of that wooden bitch

  From Dover down to Van Diemen’s Land!

  That, of course, brings down the house, with whistles and shouts of “Bravo, Shantyman!”

  We end with another chorus, and then I bow my head humbly, knowing that I am a mere apprentice in the presence of a master of the craft.

  The party roared on far into the night, but eventually it wound down and finally we took to our bed.

  “Nice little . . . shanty . . . that,” says Higgins in the dark. “I believe it to be on a par with ‘The Villain Pursues Fair Maiden,’ that notable . . . er, um . . . play of yours.”

  “Higgins, I’ve got to use what little wit I have,” I huff, and face away from him.

  “Do not take offense, Miss. We both know you possess considerable wit.”

  I roll back over. “All right, Higgins, I shan’t because I cannot be mad at you. Good night, Husband.”

  “Good night, Wife.”

  We lie in silence for a while and then I whisper, “Higgins, have you seen the way Ruger looks at me?”

  “Ummm. Yes. He has, in fact, offered me ten pounds for an hour with you.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “That when I am tired of you, he shall have his pleasure. It seemed to satisfy him. For the moment.”

  “Very politic, Higgins.”

  “It was the best I could think of.”

  “And now his eye is on Mairead, too.”

  “It seems the man desires most what he cannot have. We must be very careful, Miss.”

  “We will try. Good night, Higgins.”

  “Good night, Miss.”

  I do not sleep at all well this night as I have an overwhelming sense of foreboding.

  Chapter 48

  Dawn comes early, as it always does to any band of very repentant revelers.

  Yes, it does, but not so much to me, as I do not drink spirits and therefore do not have to face the iron fist of agony that lurks ’neath the velvet glove of silken and sweet libations, about which my sea dad Liam Delaney had warned me, very much to my benefit . . . or usually so . . . No, I pop out of bed full of self-righteous smugness, wash, and am refreshed and ready to face the new day.

  Higgins, of course, has risen long ago to tend to the Captain’s needs, which will surely include “a hair of the dog that bit him.” That means, in common parlance, a good strong drink to ward off the dreaded and merciless hangover. Higgins has long since contrived a potion consisting of pepper, lime juice, horseradish, garlic, curry, and other spices he has picked up in these exotic lands, along with tomato juice, and lastly a good, stiff dollop of rum, and that concoction manages to get a grumpy Captain Laughton back on his feet again and in reasonably good humor.

  “Good day, mates,” I chirp as I skip into the galley, my trepidations of the night before completely gone in the light of a fine new day.

  Mick and his Bella and Keefe and Maggie are therein, having breakfast, as are Mary Wade and Molly and a few other Newgaters. I had continued in my way nudging the shy Keefe and my Mag closer together, and they seem to be getting along quite nicely.

  “Good day, Jacky,” greets Cookie, handing me a mug of strong sweet tea.

  Gratefully, I take it and slurp loudly at the cup and then pass the heavy mug down to Ravi, who is never far from my side. He sucks it in as avidly as I did. Jezebel curls up on my lap and I stroke her thick and glossy fur. I know she certainly eats well.

  The talk turns to the day’s events. It is a Sunday, so I can expect to be called upon for some entertainment. That’s all right, that’s my g
ame, after all—rosin up the bow and all that.

  “Captain wants to do the play again, so we gots to set up the stage,” says Mick, his hand running through Bella’s abundant black locks.

  “Ah,” says I. “Well, all right. We’ll do it up proper then. It’s always fun.” No matter what that Higgins says. Everyone’s a critic, it seems . . .

  Captain Laughton dearly loves to do the silly playlet, and I have expanded his part considerably. The play now ends with him, a hand on both Goodheart and Strongheart, pronouncing that “God’s in his Heaven, all’s right with the world!”

  Cookie chuckles over all this, knowing he has only to tend his stove and his pots.

  “A few fresh millers might be just the thing for lunch, Jacky,” he says, and I have to agree. I believe I’ll string up my bow right away.

  “Ravi, go fetch my bow and quiver, for a-hunting I shall go.”

  “Do you kill the big mousies again today, Memsahib, once more becoming Earthly Manifestation of Kali, Goddess of Death?”

  “Yes, Ravi, Earthly Manifestation of the Minor God Pain-in-the-Butt. Yes, I do go to hunt the rats in the lower decks. Come.”

  “I have not heard of that particular deity, Memsahib,” he says, doubtfully. “But you could come back as big mousie, Missy Memsahib, as I fear your karma points in that direction. And then you would feel the sharp arrow go into your dear side, oh.”

  “While I admit that would be uncomfortable, I shall chance it, boy. Let us go.”

  So after the hunt is over and several fat millers have paid the price of rodenthood, I give Keefe the job of making new arrows, as he is skillful with his hands. I think of Jaimy when I ask Keefe to do this, for Fletcher is the Old English word for “Maker of Arrows.” Funny that, and quite fitting, I believe.

  No, I hadn’t lost the arrows down below in the hunt for the millers—Ravi had scampered down and retrieved those. No, ’twas the ones I had sent flaming aloft that I was losing at an alarming rate. I had taken to entertaining the Crews in the evenings, when the wind was light, by wrapping the ends of the arrows in burning pitch and shooting them aloft. Rather like fireworks, the spectacle was enthusiastically received by all. The Captain even said that he was pleased that he had been vindicated in appointing me Mistress of Revels, and I glow under his praise.

  The play has just been performed again. The villain is killed, my dress comes off, but with virtue intact, and the Captain concludes with his final oratory, to great applause. Afterward he bows to all and then plunks himself down in his usual spot.

  “Oh, capital, just capital!” he chortles from his throne on the quarterdeck, a new Lizzie on one knee, a new Judy on the other. He waves a finger at Higgins, who is approaching with a tray upon which rest three glasses of ruby-red wine. “You’d best watch your wife, Mr. Higgins. She tends to lose her clothes rather easily! Har!”

  It is true; I have not bothered getting back in more formal rig. What’s the point? Why bother?

  The play now being over, Mick and Keefe are dismantling the stage so that the dancing may begin. When I come back out of the hold bearing my fiddle, hoots and hollers and applause erupt. I’m being carried into a lifetime of bondage, but for the moment, I suck it all in. I do love it so.

  “You may rest assured, Captain,” says Higgins, taking the tray and presenting the drinks to the Captain and his consorts. “That aspect of her character has been noticed and will be dealt with.”

  “Her character! Ha! You kill me, Mr. Higgins, you really do! Har-har!” roars the Captain. “I trust you will not beat her too harshly, as she is a brisk little thing and we would not want to break her spirit. The usual advice on moderation in all things should prevail—‘A man should endeavor to beat his wife once every day, whether she warrants it or not.’ Just once a day, now, Mr. Higgins, no more. And that should do the trick! Moderation in all things, Mr. Higgins. Moderation! Har-har!” He downs his wine and passes the glass back to Higgins. “Music now!” he roars. Captain Laughton is not a man to restrain his enthusiasms. “More music, more wine, more dancing, more merriment, oh, Lord, more—”

  And that, appropriately, is his last word upon this Earth.

  He gasps and slumps over.

  Higgins, alarmed, rushes to his side and puts his palm to the Captain’s chest.

  “Quick! Get the Surgeon!” he shouts, and men run off.

  When the Surgeon comes up from whatever hole he habitually hides in, he grabs the Captain’s limp wrist, feels for his pulse, then shakes his head. There are wails heard from every corner of the Lorelei Lee, from Lizzies and Judies to Tartans, too . . . Oh, no, not our dear Gussie!

  But it is true. Captain Augustus Laughton is dead.

  It is hot, so funeral arrangements must be quick. The Captain’s body is prepared and sewn up in canvas, then placed on a board. As the sorrowful bundle is quite round in the middle, it is impossible to mistake just whose corporeal remains are contained therein.

  I assemble the Chorus and we gather about his bier to sing the Sanctus from Bach’s B Minor Mass. I somehow think that Gussie would not at all mind being sung off to eternity by a heavenly chorus of thieves and whores. We then fall silent.

  There is not a dry eye on the ship, save two, those of Mr. Ruger—now Captain Ruger—and he surveys all from his quarterdeck, but he does not come down to join us in saying farewell to our jolly Captain Laughton.

  As I am the Mistress of Revels, it seems that I am also the Sayer of Words in sad times like these. I open the Book of Common Prayer . . .

  Earth to earth, ashes to ashes

  Dust to dust,

  In sure and certain hope of the

  Resurrection into eternal life.

  Then Enoch Lightner goes to the side of our fallen Captain and puts his hand on his friend’s now quiet chest. Tears are seen seeping from beneath the bandage that covers his eyes.

  Go, Augustus, go off into the night, laughing.

  Give no thought to those of us left here in sorrow,

  Those who knew you and loved you.

  Go to God, friend!

  Then I step to the rail to say the old words, so often spoken at times like these.

  We commend his body to the sea,

  And his soul to God.

  When I finish, I nod. The board is lifted and the body of our beloved Captain Augustus Laughton slides off into the sea. He died as he had lived, with a dolly on each knee, but, oh, how we hate to see him go.

  Goodbye, Gussie . . . You were good to me and I shall never forget it. Requiescat in pacem, Augustus Laughton . . .

  Chapter 49

  Jaimy Fletcher

  Onboard the Ship Cerberus

  Armed, and Very Dangerous

  Dear Jacky,

  Yes, dear girl, thanks to you, we are armed, and not just me—all of us now have weapons.

  Yesterday, when we were led on our way to the head, I spied a length of rope left carelessly lying in the passageway. I grunted at Ian and darted my eyes toward the coil of line. He understood instantly and contrived to fall against the others in the line and we all fell in a confused pile to the deck. “We’re sorry, Corporal Vance, yer honor, we’re just so weak from cruel treatment that we cannot stand proper!” from Padraic, and “Get up, you worthless Irish scum! Get up or I’ll beat you to your feet!” from Corporal Vance. The rest of the Irish lads wail away in Gaelic, further confusing the scene.

  The Weasel yells at us—“Get up, you sorry lot!”—and Corporal Vance and Sergeant Napper wade in with club and whip, and eventually we do stagger to our feet and get back into line. But not before I manage to get the rope wrapped around my waist and concealed by my shirt.

  In spite of the near riot, we are taken up on deck for exercise. As we shuffle along, I look out on the horizon and see nothing.

  The Dart is gone!

  “Yes,” says Second Mate Hollister, seeing me look around for the escort. “She is detached for three days—back to Singapore on some diplomatic nonsense. We have shorte
ned sail so as to poke along until such time as she catches back up with us. Believe me, I do not like it.”

  So, it must be done now, while the ship is defenseless!

  Later, we measure out the rope and find that we can apportion a bit more than two feet to every unarmed man—that being five of them, me having the shiv and Sean Duggan having the club. Each man wears his cord wrapped around his waist, waiting for the proper time—three and a half feet long with a good thick knot at each end. True, the garrote is a nasty weapon, but it is effective, and it is silent. A man may cry out if a dagger is thrust in his side, but no one cries out when in the hideous choking embrace of El Garrote.

  “You know what to do,” I whisper in the night. “One loop around the neck and then tighten with all your might. Clamp your knees about them as they stuggle but do not let them go till they go limp. Remember, very few of this crew has ever shown us a bit of kindness of any sort—it has all been kicks and curses and being treated like animals. Keep that in mind. Do not let the better angels of your natures rule. We must harden our hearts, else we be lost.”

  “My heart is hard as any stone, Fletcher, believe it,” mutters McBride.

  “So say you one, so say you all?”

  There are grunts of agreement in the gloom.

  “Very well, the die is cast. The escort ship is gone but will be back soon, so we must go tomorrow night after the watch changes at midnight. The men will be groggy from their beds and not paying much attention to things. We will either succeed or we will be hanged. So be it. Better an honorable death at the end of a rope than a lifetime of misery and shame.”