The Wake of the Lorelei Lee

by L. A. Meyer

  My, my, there’s the Southern Cross up there . . . We must be below the equator. What, no ceremony for us poor convicts, Captain Griswold? Well, perhaps, if Neptune is willing, we shall have one after all.

  Get your mind on the job, Fletcher—time for idle thoughts later.

  Ian and Arthur approach the quarterdeck and are noticed.

  “So, how are our animals down below, Sergeant?” asks the Officer of the Watch, who, I am relieved to see, is First Mate Block and not Hollister. “Do they rest easy?”

  I am glad to see you there, Block—for if it comes down to it, I will kill you, for you have shown no kindness to any captives aboard this benighted ship.

  “Aye, Sir, they do, they do . . .”

  “Do I perceive that you might be a mite drunk, Sergeant Napper?” asks Block, a cold edge seeping into his voice.

  “Oh, yes, Sir,” admits McBride, climbing the quarterdeck stairs a bit unsteadily. “A wee bit, perhaps . . . in celebration of the . . . hic! . . . Captain’s birthday, don’cha know.” Ian is right behind him, equally unsteady on his pins.

  While all eyes are riveted on Block, McConnaughey, and McBride on the port side, the Boarding Party and I creep silently over the quarterdeck rail on the starboard side. Clubs, boys, if you can. No sense killing innocent seamen like ourselves, if we can help it. Let’s go . . .

  “I think I must put you on report, Sergeant Napper,” says Mr. Block. “Wait . . . you are not . . . Bo’sun! Sound the alarm and take these men!”

  But the Bo’sun takes nothing except a hard blow to his head from Duggan’s club, as we swarm over the quarterdeck. Block, shocked, goes for the speaking tube to alert the Captain, but I get there first and bring your shiv up under his ribs as hard as I can and twist it. He gasps and tries to shout, but I have my other hand over his mouth and he cannot. His hot blood pours over my hand, but I harden my heart and let it flow. After a moment he slumps to the deck.

  The helmsman has long since been knocked unconscious by Duggan’s club.

  “Parnell!” I hiss. “Take the helm. Steer the same course till we see what’s up!”

  Young Connolly has already done his task in shoving his fist in the speaking tube and leaving it there so that the Captain cannot hear what is happening right above his head.

  “Fletcher!” hisses Lynch from down below. “We’ve got the cutlasses! Here!”

  The blades are passed up and all take one. I test the edge of mine and decide it’s sharp enough.

  “Quiet, all! There’s still work to do! We must confine the crew!”

  I leap off the quarterdeck to examine the doors leading down to the officers’ mess and the crew’s quarters and . . . yes! They both open outward!

  “Duggan, to me!” I whisper more loudly than I wish. “Bring your club! And another belaying pin.”

  Mystified, he does it, and I grasp the pin and place it butt down on a bollard and lay my cutlass, blade aimed down, upon it.

  “Hit it!” I order, and Duggan brings down his club, neatly splitting the belaying pin, top to bottom. As I knew it would, the pieces are wider at one end than the other.

  Yes, my devious little girl, exactly like the wedges you used to great advantage at various times in the protection of your own tender self. You see, I did read, and I did learn . . .

  I place one each at the bottom of the crew’s hatchway doors and say, “Duggan! Pound them in!”

  He does it and all is secure. They cannot get out.

  We have the ship.

  I stand on the quarterdeck and look off into the starry night. Looking again at the Southern Cross hanging low on the horizon, I button up my jacket and think on thee.

  I put one foot to either side of the centerline so as to feel the action of the ship as you so often said you have done when in command of your own vessel, be she schooner, brig, or riverboat. This ship is not the sleek Nancy B., no, but for now she’ll have to do.

  Ian McConnaughey comes up and stands next to me, looking off to the southern horizon, where he knows his lost Mairead lies somewhere over the sea.

  “We have done it, Jaimy,” he says.

  “Aye, Ian, we have. Now comes the hard part . . .”

  Off in pursuit of you, I remain,

  Yrs,

  Jaimy

  Chapter 52

  Thing have gotten worse.

  Ruger has gone completely out of control. Maybe it’s the drink or maybe it’s something more sinister. I don’t know, but something has ravaged his mind and havoc rules on the once happy Lorelei Lee.

  Everyone stays out of his way. I haven’t seen Army Major Johnston nor his wife, Esther, for days. The Shantyman appears on deck, but aside from some low conversation with Mairead, he sings no more. My Newgaters lie low, as does any member of the Crews who manages to avoid his grasp. Several girls have come back badly beaten and bruised from overnight stays in his cabin. He has taken to wearing two pistols in his belt, and well he might, for his own officers and seamen are not happy, either.

  He remains relentless in his pursuit of me . . . and of Mairead, too . . . and I wonder at it. What kind of man would lust after a girl who is with child and already showing? Does he really have worms in his brain?

  Sadly, all things seem to come to a head today. I have been idling in the foretop with Mary Wade and Molly, getting some sun and fresh air, all three of us in our light Powder Monkey gear. Ravi is there, too, with Josephine. He is scratching the little ape’s belly, something she likes a lot. She leans back against the mast and grins her toothy monkey smile.

  I see Mairead down below, standing at the rail, with her hand on Enoch Lightner’s arm. ’Tis plain she has convinced him to come up for some air, which is good, for the death of his great good friend Captain Laughton and the turn of events on my poor ship have weighed heavily on him. Mairead has tried, over the past week, to lend him some comfort and cheer.

  “Impossibly red-haired Missy to have little baby?” asks Ravi, looking down upon her. “Oh, what great joy!”

  “Yes, Ravi, that seems to be the case,” says I, indolent and drowsy in the warmth of the sun.

  “Will baby have impossibly red hair, too?”

  “Probably,” I answer, thinking of the baby’s father, Ian McConnaughey. He, too, has reddish hair, so—

  There is a shout from below and we all, including Josephine, look down over the edge of the foretop decking. This is not a wise move, as things turn out.

  The shout is from Ruger. He has come staggering out of his cabin, clutching a bottle, already drunk at ten in the morning.

  He looks up and spots me right off. He may be drunk, but he is not blind.

  “Get down here, you!” he shouts, pointing at me.

  Uh-oh . . .

  “Please, Sir, I’d rather not. Perhaps later, when you are more yourself . . .”

  “Fine, I will . . . urp . . . kill your monkey first . . . and then your dirty little nigra boy—that will afford me some sport in your absence.”

  He draws a pistol from his belt, aims it at Josephine, and fires.

  Crack!

  “No!” I shout, pushing Josephine down, such that the bullet whizzes harmlessly over her head. She shrieks and heads for the high rigging. She may be an ape, but she knows things ain’t right. “All right! I’m coming down!”

  The shot brings all the officers up on deck, as well as most members of the crew. Army Major Johnston is there, with Esther behind him. Mr. Gibson, too, and Seabrook, and even the Surgeon, all trying to talk some sense into Captain Ruger. The three madams are topside, too—Mrs. Barnsley, Mrs. Berry, and Mrs. MacDonald—as well as many of their girls. Higgins appears and stands before Ruger. All look grim.

  “I shall take your wife, Mr. Higgins, and I shall take her now.”

  “No, you shall not do that, Sir,” retorts Higgins, and he does the unpardonable—he reaches out and pushes Ruger back hard against the rail. “Control yourself, Sir!”

  “What? You place your hand on me, fancy ma
n? On me, your Captain? That is a capital offense, as you well know.” He lurches toward Higgins. “I sentence you to death!”

  With that, he pulls out his remaining pistol and aims it at Higgins’s chest.

  “No!” I scream and leap over the side of the foretop, grab the buntline, and swing down to the deck and stand between them. “Here I am! Put that away! I shall go with you. Do with me what you will, but do not harm my husband!”

  A sly smile creeps over Ruger’s face.

  “Good,” he says. “That’s what I like to hear. Get into my cabin. We shall have some . . . sport.”

  I turn to Higgins. “He is drunk, Higgins,” I say. “I’ve handled drunks before. I will not have you killed for my sake. Let me handle this, please, John!”

  I start in the direction of the cabin, but Ruger is not yet done out here.

  Straightening up, about to follow me, he then notices Mairead standing next to the tall Shantyman, Enoch’s arm about her shoulders. He points at her.

  “That one, too. The one with the red hair. The three of us shall have a very gay time of it.”

  What? No!

  The Shantyman’s face shows that he knows quite well what is going on. “What? You would hurt her?” He pulls Mairead to him. “Stand behind me, girl!”

  She does and he lifts his staff and swings it before him, saying, “Back off! Any who would approach us! Back off!”

  “How wonderfully noble,” snarls Ruger, hiccupping. He takes another swig out of the bottle. “But how stupidly pathetic as well. Bo’sun, take that poor excuse for a man and throw him down below decks. I am sick of him and his dreary songs.”

  But both the Bo’sun and Ruger underestimate the Shantyman. He may not be able to see like other men, but they find he is not without resources.

  Smirking, Bo’sun Roberts strides up before the blind man and reaches out to grasp Mairead. His feet, however, scrape upon the deck. Hearing that, the Shantyman loops his staff around and places the club end of it on the deck before him and then slides it over till it touches the Bo’sun’s foot. Knowing where Roberts’s foot is, he can now sense where his head is, and with a mighty swing, he brings the club end of the staff hard against the Bo’sun’s skull. Roberts does not cry out, for he cannot, being rendered speechless by the blow. No, he merely shrinks and crumples to the deck, and he does not rise.

  “Against me . . . You’re all against me . . . Always have been,” hisses Ruger. He staggers against the quarterdeck rail. “Fancy airs . . . fancy music . . . fancy bitches . . . bunch o’ crap, all of it.”

  He lurches upright.

  “Take that blind bastard down, or by God I’ll hang the lot of you! Do it! Now!”

  It is Suggs and Monk who come forward, and each grabs one of the Shantyman’s arms and drags him down to the deck. Suggs has a belaying pin in his fist and he swings it and brings it down on the back of Enoch’s head. He does it again and again. “No, let him alone! Stop!” cries Mairead, lifting her hands to ward off the rain of blows, but to no avail. Suggs and Monk are on him, and they beat him till the Shantyman struggles no more. Then Suggs and Monk drag him down into the hold.

  Ruger staggers across the deck and grabs Mairead by the neck.

  “Now, my dear, let us go below.”

  I run across the deck and grab his arm and try to pull him off her, but he shoves me aside.

  “Please, Sir! Let her be!” I plead. “Come, I will . . .”

  He is relentless as he drags her toward his cabin door.

  “But my baby!” wails Mairead.

  “Your baby? Here’s what I think of your baby!”

  He swings his fist around and punches her square in the gut. She gasps and sinks to her knees.

  There is a common gasp of horror from all onlookers.

  “There. That should take care of that!”

  “My baby! Oh, Lord, you have killed my baby!”

  Mrs. Barnsley is aghast. “All my girls, get below! If he’d do that, he’d do anything! The man is mad! Get below, now!”

  Mrs. Berry and Mrs. MacDonald shout to their women as well, and girls begin rushing out of the rigging, the upper deck, the staterooms, everywhere on the ship, and pour down the hatchway.

  I rush to Mairead and lift her up. Blood is already running down the inside of her leg. Her face is a contorted mask of grief.

  Oh, Lord, no!

  Higgins is there and he sweeps her up in his arms and carries her to the passageway.

  “Take her to our laundry!” I cry as I follow. I’m the last one down. “Lock the door!”

  Ruger continues to stagger and roar outside.

  “Goddamn ’em all to hell! Lock the filthy whores down! Lock ’em all down!”

  Mairead, crying, is laid on her bed. It is immediately a bloody mess.

  I find Mrs. Barnsley by my side. She has the other madams with her. All look grim.

  “Let us handle this,” she says. “We’ve seen all this before, and I’ll wager you have not.”

  I stand back as they begin to undress the crying girl.

  “There, there, dearie,” croons Mrs. MacDonald. “There, there, you’ll be all right.”

  “But my baby . . .” Mairead moans. “What about my baby?”

  Mrs. MacDonald says nothing to that . . .

  . . . but I do.

  “That dirty son of a bitch is gonna pay!” I snarl, and rush to where my bow hangs on the wall. I nock an arrow and jump up on a bunk and look out forward. Good. He’s still there.

  Ruger leans up against the mast, his rage still not spent.

  “Die, you miserable bastard!” I shout, and let the arrow fly straight toward his chest. “Die!”

  Chapter 53

  Jaimy Fletcher

  Commander, at least for now

  Of the ship Cerberus

  Dear Jacky,

  The sun is coming up now, as we complete our takeover of the convict ship Cerberus.

  After we had established ourselves on the quarterdeck and made sure that the officers and crew were confined, we set about securing our position. Rumblings and rattlings started from those trapped below, but we paid them little mind—they were well and securely confined.

  I cracked on as much sail as we could to make all speed, knowing as I did that the Dart was not far behind and could cause us only grief should she arrive. With the added canvas, the Cerberus did what she could.

  Then there was the little matter of Captain Griswold—ex-Captain Griswold, that is . . .

  Stationing Parnell and Duggan to either side of the Captain’s door, both armed with gleaming cutlasses, I go to the speaking tube and shout down it.

  “Captain! Come quick! Warship on the horizon!”

  Seconds later, Griswold comes charging out of his cabin, dressed only in his nightshirt, eyes blinking at the sudden light.

  “What? Where . . . ?”

  “Right here, Captain,” I say, looking down upon him from the quarterdeck. He sees me, and then he feels the two cutlasses held tight against his neck.

  “Take him down and tie him to a chair. We will need some information from him.”

  “What!” he sputters. “Why, you’ll hang for this, whoever the hell you are!”

  “Please, Captain, I know you are in a state of shock at these proceedings, but a little more originality, if you please. As for who I am, I am Lieutenant James Emerson Fletcher, late of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. You might recall you recently had me bound to the grating and given sixteen of the best.” I pause to let that sink in. His face turns a satisfying shade of pale.

  “Your servant, Sir,” I continue, giving him a mock bow. “And as to which of us shall hang first, well, we shall see . . .”

  I look up to the main yardarm, from which nooses would certainly dangle, and from which he would most surely be hanged. He gets the point, for just then the bodies of Sergeant Napper and Corporal Vance are brought up from our cell and tossed over the side, as is the corpse of Lieutenant Block.

 
Yes, Jacky, two more notches on your shiv, two more marks upon my soul . . .

  The Captain sees, and his face goes even whiter, as he now knows we are serious about our business. My two stout Irish lads kick him back into what used to be his cabin.

  Get in there, you!

  Then I see that something else is brought up from our old cell, as well.

  “Look what we have here!” shouts Seamus Lynch, triumphant, holding a groggy but plainly terrified little man by the neck. “’Tis the very Weasel himself, by the merciful God who takes good care o’ his faithful servants, he does! Oh, it is to hell for you, Weasel, and very soon, too!”

  Upon hearing this, the Weasel promply wets his trousers.

  “What shall we do, Sir?” asks the delighted Lynch. “Throw him overboard, or string him up?”

  The Weasel, his eyes rolling wildly, falls to his knees and pleads, “Oh, please, Sirs, no . . .”

  I consider this, and look over the side of the ship and say, “Yes, both those suggestions would be most entertaining, and he certainly has it coming to him . . . And I see we have some rather large sharks following in our wake . . . That could be fun, watching those brutes tear him apart, limb by limb. But no, not just now. Let him live for a while yet. He might prove useful.”