by L. A. Meyer
“Useful?” asks Lynch, dubiously, ready to lift his club and to cheerfully spill the Weasel’s brains out over the deck. “How?”
“Well, for one, he will know where the armory is, such that we can arm ourselves properly with pistols and muskets. Those below are getting restive, you might note. There are more and more sounds from below, and a whiff of grapeshot in their faces just might calm them down.”
Heads nod, and the wisdom of this is generally acknowledged.
“Now, the Weasel, being what he is—a dirty little rodent—will know where everything is on this ship.” The Weasel, still on his knees, his eyes wide and pleading, nods vigorously to this. “Would you not want a spot of wine or rum this evening to celebrate our victory? How long has it been, Lynch? Some good food for a change? Hmmm?”
There is general assent to that notion. Wine? Rum? Good food?
There is now a heavy pounding from the inside of the hatchway doors. The crew grows restive.
“Weasel, if you value your life, lead on to the armory.”
He does it, taking a key from the ones that Napper wore on his belt. Soon we are all armed with primed pistols and muskets. The guns feel splendid tucked into my waist as I advance to the door behind which sits a very unhappy crew of seamen.
“Let us out! Let us out now, else we shall take all of you and throw you into the sea!” comes the cry from the other side of the door.
Idle threats, lads, will do you no good . . .
I draw one of my pistols and put a shot through the door, at just about waist high level. I hear a sharp cry of pain from within.
“Who speaks for you?” I demand. There is a pause, then . . .
“I do. Second Mate Hollister.”
“Ah, Hollister. This is Fletcher, now in command of this vessel. I know you to be an honorable man, unlike most on-board. Rest assured you will not be harmed if you follow instructions. My intent is to put you and your crew off in one of the lifeboats. We are not far from land, and you should be able to make landfall within hours of being cast away. Where you will land, I do not know just yet, but I will be consulting the charts in Griswold’s cabin.”
“What of the Captain?”
“He is not yet dead, Mr. Hollister, but Block, Napper, and Vance are,” I say. “Now, everyone settle down and perhaps all remaining will survive this day. But know this. My crew and I are desperate men. We are preparing a lifeboat, and we will put you in it so you may sail away. If you do something stupid, like setting fire down below, then we will be off in that same boat and all of you will perish most horribly. Understood? Good. Quiet, now.”
During my confinement I have had a lot of time to think of various eventualities . . .
“All right,” I say, going back to the quarterdeck. “Sweeney, take the watch. Steer the same course till I figure out just where we are. I’ll be below. Delaney, McBride, McConnaughey, come with me.”
We go down into the Captain’s cabin and find that Duggan and Parnell have, indeed, tied him very securely to a chair, using their garrotes. Handy things, those. They also have stuffed a rag in his mouth to shut him up.
He looks at me as I enter, his eyes wild. I ignore him for the present.
We will get to you later, Captain Griswold, count on it.
I go to the chart spread out on the table. There are lines of position laid out upon it, and from them I deduce that we are about fifty miles off to the east of a place called Sumatra, and somewhat north of the port of Batavia.
I have heard of Batavia, and, even though it is held by the Dutch, it just might suit our interests.
After all, I say to myself with a bit of regret, we are no longer British.
I occupy myself with going through the Captain’s papers, and I discover something that strikes my interest. All the prisoners onboard this ship are to be delivered to the penal colony at New South Wales, commanded by Captain William Bligh.
Imagine that, old Breadfruit Bligh himself This gets better and better . . .
“Take out his gag,” I order, and Ian pulls the cloth from Griswold’s mouth. He sputters for a bit, but with a swat from the back of McBride’s hand he becomes right docile.
Holding a paper before me, I ask of him, “Tell me, Griswold, have you ever met this Captain William Bligh personally? Ever raised a glass with him?”
“No. Never.”
“Hmmm . . . And the payment for the delivery of the convicts . . . How is that accomplished?”
“Go to hell, you blaggard!”
I look off out the open door.
“Is the noose ready at the yardarm, Ian? The proper knot?”
Ian nods. “Yes. Duggan is quite expert at knots of that sort.”
“Good. We’ll want that done right. Royal Navy, drum rolls and all . . .”
Griswold turns yet another shade of pale and says, “The Commander of the Company ship is paid by a draft upon the Bank of England with delivery of each live convict.”
“Well, well,” I say. “I’d rather have cash, but we can work with that. Now, where is your money?”
“What?”
“Yes, Captain, your money. You must have some. We will need to purchase some gunnery. You’ll admit this ship is woefully underprotected.”
“I have no money.”
“Of course, you don’t. You are but a simple merchant captain, doing your job. I accept that.”
I neaten up the papers, lay them aside, and say, “We have no more need of him. Take him out and tie him to the grating. Strip off his shirt. He gave me sixteen, McBride ten. So give him twenty-six . . . and since yesterday was his birthday . . . give him one to grow on.”
“How—how can you do that?”
“Simple, Griswold. Tit for tat, simple as that.”
“You would torture a man to gain information?”
“Oh, no, Captain. I am a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy . . . or at least I was. I am a man of honor. I would never torture a prisoner,” I say. “But I will mete out deserved punishment. Take him out!”
The Captain struggles and then sags in the grasp of Ian and Arthur.
“All right,” he says. “Under the floorboards. Over there.”
Well, all right . . .
“Thank you, Captain. That makes things easier. Take off six lashes for good behavior, making it an even twenty. We’ll have Duggan swing the cat, as he’s the strongest.”
Griswold is hauled out cursing me to hell and back again. Soon he is not swearing, however—he is howling.
The old crew of the Cerberus is taken out of the hold at gunpoint and forced into one of the two lifeboats. They are given some food and water and advised to steer east.
“Goodbye, Mr. Hollister. Good sailing to you. You were a decent sort and I thank you. Captain Griswold, I hope you took a good lesson from today’s events. To wit, be careful whom you whip. Farewell. I wish you all a safe voyage.”
The Captain glowers, wrapped in his bloody shirt, as they are cast off, and we see them no more. Then we change course and set sail for Batavia.
When we are off, I turn once again to the business of running the ship.
“Ian. Start bringing up the prisoners we have designated as trustable. Don’t let the other convicts know what’s going on. We don’t want trouble from them—not yet, anyway. Padraic, make sure all locks are secure . . . Oh, and have the Weasel set to work cleaning the stinking uniforms of Napper and Vance. We shall need them for deception purposes. McBride, take three men and—”
“And just what, Sir.” McBride sneers, his arms crossed on his chest.
Uh-oh . . . Here it is . . . And I’ve got to do this now, or I am the Captain of nothing . . .
I grab McBride by his collar and shove him backwards, hard. He stumbles, but does not fall. He puts up his fists.
“All right, McBride, up on the main hatch. Me and you. Let’s settle it. Now.”
He grins and climbs up on the hatch. He motions me to follow.
“You don’t have to do this
,” says Ian. “We—”
“Oh, yes, we do,” say Arthur McBride and I together in one breath.
“What will it be, guv’nor? Swords?”
“No, McBride. I am a trained Naval officer, and you are a lowland Irish bogtrotter—the fight would not be fair. I would run you through in an instant, and as attractive as that notion is, I will not do it, being a man of some honor.”
“What, then, Mr. Honorable Brit?” says McBride, rolling up his sleeves.
“I know your kind would prefer shillelaghs, but I will not sully my hands with crude dumb cudgels,” I say, leaping to the hatch top and rolling up my own sleeves. “Nay. It shall be fists . . . with no holds barred. Last man standing will be the Captain. Agreed?”
“Oh, yes, agreed,” says McBride, getting into a crouch. “Come on, Sir. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
I know that McBride is tough, but I am tough, too. I have been toughened as a ship’s boy, kicked about by rough seamen, and as a midshipman, heir to all the kicks and blows the senior middies could pile on. And have I not “rassled” with the mighty Mike Fink on the banks of the Mississippi! Yes, I have. And did not Beatty and McCoy pay the price for crossing me? Oh yes, they did, and now they rot in hell for it. So come on, McBride, you low-life Irish swine. I ball up my fists.
As I expected, he charges in low, head down, in hopes of knocking me off my feet. I jump back, swing, and hit him high on his cheekbone.
Yeow! My fist vibrates with the pain. I realize there’s no sense in hitting him in the face—the hardheaded mick is undoubtedly used to that. I’d probably just break my hand. No, go for the body. Catch him in the lower ribs.
While I’m thinking this, he swings his right and catches me above the eye, rocking me back and opening a cut on my forehead. Blood trickles into my eye.
Seeing this, McBride grins and drops his guard, pulls back, and launches a broad roundhouse that would surely end this fight and my leadership if it were to land.
It does not land. I stick up my left forearm and stop the swing. His midriff is wide open, so I bring my right around and slam it into his lower ribs.
He gasps. I hit him again in exactly the same place, trying to bury my fist as deep in his gut as I can.
Take that, you ignorant son of a bitch. Yes, and here’s another one for Jacky. And yet another for that damned joke . . . Laugh at this, why don’t you?
His mouth is open, trying in vain to suck in air. Unable to catch his breath, his face turns bright red and he sinks to his knees.
I stand over him, victorious, my fists still clenched. I could now destroy him. But I do not. Instead I extend my hand.
“I am the Captain. Ian McConnaughey shall be First Mate, Padraic Delaney Second, and you, Arthur McBride, shall be Third. Duggan will be Bo’sun. Shall we all now get to work?”
He reaches up and takes my hand, and I lift him to his feet. “Thank you, Captain,” he wheezes. “Third Mate it is.”
When the day’s work is done, the table is set, the wine opened, and the rum poured, we have a fine celebration in the cabin . . . my cabin now.
During the conversation, Padraic asks, “Should we change the name of this bark? Hard to love that name.”
I lean back in my chair and motion for the Weasel to refill my glass, then say, “I had thought about that, but since we are now plainly a pirate ship in the eyes of the civilized world, perhaps the name is appropriate.”
“What does it mean?”
“In Greek myths, Cerberus was the fierce three-headed dog, servant of the god Hades, who guarded the gates of the Underworld.”
“Ha! Seems right to me! Right piratical!” says Duggan, pounding the table.
“So say you one, so say you all?”
Done!
Till Later, Jacky,
Jaimy
Chapter 54
No, unfortunately, I had not managed to kill that unspeakable spawn of hell. Ruger had lurched sideways at the last moment so that my arrow only grazed his neck, pinning his shirt collar to the mast. Before I could loose another shaft, he had torn away and disappeared.
But a truce of sorts is now in effect onboard the once happy Lorelei Lee. It has been negotiated between Messrs. Seabrook and Gibson, the Surgeon, Major Johnston, and myself. I refuse to talk to Ruger, that miserable fiend, and he stays mainly in his cabin, almost certainly drunk. When he does appear, he wears his sword and pistols.
The agreement is this: We shall proceed to New South Wales, which is only about three weeks off, should the wind and weather be kind. Once in Australia, I will be tried for the attempted murder of Captain Ruger and he shall be brought to account for the murder of Mairead’s child.
Why do the Lorelei Lee’s officers talk to me at all? It is simple. Barricaded with me below are Higgins and Ravi, along with Mick and Keefe, neither of whom want to give up their girls, and they do owe me some loyalty. Then there is Cookie and the galley, as well as the storerooms that hold the food . . . and the wine and rum. All three of the female Crews are with me, too.
Furthermore, I have my bow and many arrows. They know I could sting them at will and make their lives miserable. Should they attempt to charge our hatchway, many of them would certainly die, and no one wants to die for Captain Ruger.
Furthermore, I have a dozen torch-tipped arrows, and the bucket of pitch sits by the galley stove, just waiting to be lit. I could set the sails on fire, and then none of us would be going anywhere.
The powder magazine is down here, too, and without powder, the ship is defenseless. I had rigged up a small bag of powder with a six-inch fuse that I lit and threw out at their feet as talks were beginning. It flared up with a fine flame and was most impressive. Negotiations proceeded quite quickly after that.
Should the crew hold to its side of the bargain, the three madams and I have agreed to let the “wives” of the crew gradually return to their former cozy berths. So far the officers have held to that bargain. Major Johnston was delighted to have his Esther back, I know that for certain.
I, however, do not venture out, not having complete confidence in the truce. In fact, I have fashioned another weapon, because if I’d had my shiv, I would have gutted that Ruger right then and there for what he did, by God. But I did not have it, as I’d given it to Jaimy. So to take its place, I’d sharpened the small end of my pennywhistle with Cookie’s whetstone and rubbed till it was sharpened to a point—not much of a weapon, but if it’s shoved up hard under someone’s chin, well, it just might get their attention. And it still plays just fine. I have put my forearm sheath back on, and I wear the whistle there, under my shirtsleeve.
I sit by Mairead’s side and put a cool, damp cloth to her forehead. She lies on her bed, covered with a clean sheet, her hair combed and fanned out on her pillow. Barnsley and company did a good job. I notice with some relief that a degree of color has been restored to Mairead’s face.
“There, there, Sister, you just rest now,” I say. “You’ll be—”
She reaches up and takes me by the wrist and looks off over my head. “What was my baby? A boy or a girl?”
I swallow hard and decide to tell her.
“Mrs. Barnsley says it was a boy.”
Her eyes fill up and tears pour out over her cheeks. My eyes, too, are crying, to see my dear friend in such distress. I wipe away her tears and then mine with the cloth.
“The poor little thing . . . to never see the light of day . . . to never be at my breast . . . to never know his dad . . . to never be baptized,” she whispers, her eyes full of anguish.
I take her hand and put it to my lips. “Please, Sister, think of the paintings you have seen in church, the statues . . . all the happy little cherubs flying around the heads of the saints, around the Virgin herself. Think of that.”
She nods, squeezing her eyes shut, grasping my hand ever the tighter.
“Pray with me, Jacky,” she whispers.
“I will, Sister.”
She pauses, collects herself,
and then begins . . .
“Hail Mary, Full of grace, the Lord is with thee . . .”
Yes, and with your little boy, too, Mairead.
“Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death . . .”
Amen.
We are quiet for a bit, and then I say, “Mairead. When you are up to it . . . Not now, no . . . But when you are . . . Enoch Lightner has lost hope in living. He has lost his great friend Captain Laughton and he has seen—no, heard—you’ve been abused most horribly, and he was unable to prevent it. If, soon, you could see him and lend him some comfort . . .”
“I shall see him now,” says Mairead, releasing my hand and throwing back the sheet that covers her. She rises and looks about for the Shantyman and sees him lying in a bunk not far away.