The Forbidden Orchid

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  I looked for a bare space of deck next to another boy. I could make it through this. I could. If these boys could, then I could, too. Whatever they heaped upon me, I would do it. But in truth I was terrified. The stories Alex had told me made my mouth go dry and my heart hammer.

  I recognized the boy next to me as the one Holst had threatened when I first set foot on the Osprey. “I’ve forgotten your name,” I whispered.

  “Tewkes,” he said. “Robin Tewkes.” His chin trembled, and there was something about him that reminded me of Calla.

  “Let’s not show these men how afraid we are. We’ll stick together and help each other out. And when this is over, we’ll be just as good as them, fully initiated. How old are you?”

  “Fourteen,” Robin said, his voice sounded surer, with less of a tremble. “I . . . I never saw you on the ship before, but I’ve only just joined.”

  “I’ve seen you before,” I said. “I’m steward to the second mate, Alex Balashov.”

  “Oh!” his eyes were wide when I mentioned Alex’s name. “That’s why I haven’t seen you. He’s a good man, is Mr. Balashov. He helped me out a time or two.” I recognized hero worship in Robin’s voice. “You’re that lucky to work with him. I’m having to be under Mr. Holst.” He hunched his shoulders as if recalling the sting of Holst’s whip.

  One of the boys shushed us, and we fell silent. None of us dared move from our knees, not even to lean back on our heels. We all remained, still as statues on their plinths, waiting and waiting. The anticipation of the thing was quite agonizing, and I knew this to be part of the torment, part of the way to break the spirits of the boys in the initiation. I could understand how the constables were so cruel. It was their turn now to mete out the punishment, and this was their time to get revenge for their own mistreatment when they were the initiated. I would have to go along with it and hope that I could melt away in the crowd after and hide myself in Alex’s quarters.

  After an hour or so, the door creaked open, letting in a blast of fresh ocean air, and the two original constables thundered down the steps. They bade us to come forward, one by one, and tightened a cloth around our eyes. When we were thus blinded, unseen hands pulled us up the stairs. We waited in pairs, our hands resting on the boy’s shoulder in front. There was a shout, and we set off, shuffling forward in a long crocodile. Robin walked behind me, gripping my shoulder so hard I could feel his nails biting into my skin.

  The first test came with no warning. Freezing cold water bucketed over us again and again, accompanied by jeers and howls of the men, as we were marched round the ship. Even though the day was hot, the blast of cold water against my heated skin was astonishing, and I wanted to buckle under every torrent. I never knew where or when the next deluge would come, but each time I had a chance to draw in a breath, another bucketful of water would come hurtling out of nowhere. Soon, my hair was running wet and my clothes clung to me. Seawater dripped down my face, and I couldn’t help but run my tongue over my lips, absorbing the briny taste of salt into my mouth. My mouth puckered, and I spat to rid myself of the taste.

  Blessedly, we were stopped, and men yanked our blindfolds off. A creature dressed in a robe and wearing a blue buckram mask sat on a chair. He held a trident in his hand, and this, I would find out later, he used to choose each victim. Several sailors stood on the sides of the ship, watching the festivities, hooting and calling out. I looked around for Alex, but he was not there. None of the officers were.

  One of the constables dragged four of us forward, one by one—Robin and me, plus another young man and an older sailor. “Neptune wishes you to race.” He pointed at the mast where ropes formed a cat’s cradle that hung a hundred feet or more from the topmast to the deck. “Climb! First one to reach the masthead and ring the bell will win Neptune’s favor; the rest of you will win his wrath!”

  I eyed the rope contraption and felt my limbs go weak. I was not terrified of heights, and indeed as a child I was fond of climbing trees and settling into the forks of branches to read. But trees did not pitch back and forth as a rule, and I had never climbed a tree as high as that mast. I had no idea how to attempt it until I made out some smaller vertical ropes crisscrossing the larger ropes, which I assumed were meant as footholds.

  When the constable shouted, we all ran forward and began to climb. I reached up high to grasp each line, my damp booted feet struggling for purchase.

  The ropes twisted underneath us as we climbed, swinging us from side to side and making it even more difficult to ascend. My fingers trembled with each new step, and although I didn’t look down, I could sense how far off the deck we were, and I couldn’t help but picture myself falling and the horrible thud I would make as I struck the deck. Would I die instantly or would I linger in a horrible death until I finally succumbed to my injuries?

  I hung there for a moment, terrified, unable to go forward or back, the ropes biting into my hands. The others had gone ahead and had made it to the masthead and were working their way back down. For a moment, for one single moment, I thought about giving up, telling the men who I was, and calling for my father. But I had come so far; I couldn’t give up now. I was sure there were other terrified people that had made it up the rigging and back. If they could do it, so could I.

  Newly emboldened, I reached for the next line and resumed climbing, every fiber in my body humming with terror, but I forced myself to climb on. My long limbs held me in good stead, and I was able to reach higher and make my way quickly.

  Finally, finally, the masthead was in sight, and I reached out to touch it, the wooden planks smooth under my fingers. I grasped the string on the bell’s clapper and swung it to and fro.

  Slowly, I worked my way back down the lines to the deck. I wanted to kneel down and kiss the wooden boards, I was so happy to make it down safely. But a part of me wanted to climb the rigging again, wanted to see how fast I could make it up and back. I was grinning, and I turned around, expecting to be congratulated, but instead I was seized and thrust back into the group with the other boys—the older man had won. The race went on, and those who had not won joined those waiting to receive Neptune’s wrath. Those who had won Neptune’s favor sat in a knot against the mast, no longer victims, but now jeering spectators.

  One of the constables walked the line of remaining boys, glaring at us in turn. “Now! Who needs a good shave, eh?” he called out, shoving his face close to each of us. Some of the boys stared down at the deck, but I refused to cower and I kept my expression blank, my eyes straight ahead. The constable grabbed the boy in front of me and dragged him to a long wooden board leaning on one end against a large wooden tub of water. One constable helped strap him to the board with long leather thongs, and then another stepped up, taking up a bucket and a brush and began to paint his face with some sort of black paint. He followed this treatment by scraping down the boy’s face with a piece of rusty barrel stave. The boy cried out as the sailors ruthlessly applied his tool, and then, with no warning, he stepped back, and two constables shoved the board backward, dunking the boy under the water, and leaving him there for what I thought to be a good long while.

  The men seemed to know how long to hold him under without killing him, because when I thought the boy must surely be dead, the constables pushed down on the bottom of the board and brought him up, gasping and coughing, his face still painted black. They released him and dragged him to one side and dropped him, where he collapsed on his hands and knees.

  “Who is next?” the constable shouted. He looked at Neptune, who pointed his trident at his next victim, who was given the same treatment. Several boys went through until Neptune’s trident pointed at me.

  The constable made to grab me, but I shrugged him off and walked to the board before he could take hold of me. Fear filled me anew, and it was far worse than what I felt climbing the rigging. I was terrified, so terrified that my legs shook and my arms felt weak. I was most afr
aid of the water. I had no idea how to swim or how to hold my breath underwater. Indeed I had a terror of water closing over my head, of it going up my nose. Weak-kneed little child, I chided myself. Pull yourself together! The torment appeared to last only for five minutes, and I could endure anything for five minutes.

  From what I could tell watching the first victims, all I had to do was to take a gulp of air before the board slid back and hold it for as long as I could. Most of all I couldn’t panic.

  The men grasped my arms and strapped me onto the board. The ocean breeze flitted cool and sweet against my face, so hot and flushed from the climb up the rigging, but that sensation lasted only a moment.

  The constable leaned over me and slopped the paintbrush over my face with little heed to where its contents landed. I recognized the smell as pine tar, an unbelievably sticky stuff nearly impossible to remove. I squeezed my eyes shut and closed my mouth tightly, not wanting to repeat the folly of the seawater.

  Another constable approached, and without hesitation, he gripped my chin and began to scrape my face with the barrel stave. “Ha!” he said. “This one has yet to shave at all. Maybe the tar will bring in his whiskers.”

  “Or mayhap stop them from coming in altogether!” someone shouted from the onlookers.

  The board tilted back and the sky rose above me, azure blue with puffy white clouds. The beauty of the sky above clashed with the ugly torment on the ship below. I took a few deep breaths to ready my lungs for the water.

  “Wait!” Neptune called out. “Let me have a look at this pollywog!”

  The board paused in its descent, and Neptune’s masked face floated into my view. Those eyes that met mine were piercing blue.

  There was no mistaking them. The man who regarded me from behind Neptune’s disguise was Egon Holst, the Scandinavian carpenter, who had accosted me the day I came aboard the Osprey.

  I waited for the expression in his eyes to change from icy indifference to confusion and then to recognition—to hear him exclaim that he knew who I was. But his eyes didn’t change; he said nothing. He merely laughed and then shouted: “Dunk him!”

  I forgot to inhale. I forgot to hold my breath.

  The board dropped back, and water rushed around me, filling my nose and my mouth. The water burbled in my ears, muffling the men’s laughter and casting it in an eerie, devilish sound. Very quickly, I became desperate for air. My face burned with the pain of the water, my lungs fought with the need to breathe. Panic like I have never felt before ran through my body like a lightning bolt. There was no fighting, there was no praying; there was only pure fear. I could only thrash my head from side to side, desperate for the agony to end.

  If I died, it would be an accident, and no one would be to blame.

  I grew tired, so tired that I stopped my thrashing. Black spots appeared in my eyes and spread and spread until they had blotted out everything.

  It was over for me.

  SEVENTEEN

  I felt hands turn me on my side and slap me between my shoulder blades. I vomited up water, again and again, gasping for air in between each spasm, my knees drawing up to my chest of their own accord.

  The gentle hands turned me onto my back, and I opened my eyes, staring, blinking at Alex kneeling over me. His shirt was sodden with seawater, his neck handkerchief askew, and his hat and jacket cast off. “Are you all right?” he said. It was deathly quiet, and I could see the ceremony had halted; the other sailors stood back at a distance.

  I coughed again, my lungs still burned from the water I had inhaled. “Yes,” I said.

  He took my hand and helped me to sit up.

  Holst stood leaning against the mast, watching us, his Neptune mask dangling from one hand. “I’ve never seen this boy before, Mr. Balashov. You appear to know him.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s simply escaped your attention, Mr. Holst.” Alex stood up and picked up his hat and coat. “He works as my steward.” His fingers tightened around the brim of his hat.

  Everyone else stood in a huddle at the edge of the ship, standing so still and quiet that they looked like painted scenery on a stage.

  “I’ve the running of the crew as acting bos’n, sir,” Holst replied. “And I say again, I have no knowledge of this steward nor have I seen him about the ship.”

  “What are you implying, Holst?” Alex said. His face was calm, but a red flush was creeping up from his collar, and his jaw was tight.

  Holst ignored him. He looked over the crowd. “Have any of you lot laid eyes upon him?”

  “I’ve seen the lad, Mr. Holst.” The man who had spoken was neither constable nor griffin. He stepped out from the crowd of spectators lining the sides of the ship. “I’ve laid eyes on him,” he continued. “The first time I saw him on deck near the heads, and then I saw him again a few times leaving Mr. Balashov’s cabin when I had the early-morning doggy. I thought him to be one of your’n, an apprentice, seeing he’s so young looking an’ all, but now I see I got it wrong.”

  I knew the sailor who had spoken. I recognized that gravelly voice—he was the pinching drunkard I had struck with the coil of rope. Fear took hold of me then, cold and hard.

  He hadn’t forgotten me in his drunken haze. He remembered.

  “Of course you would have seen me leave his cabin, sir,” I replied, careful to pitch my voice low. “It’s my job to look after him.”

  “I’m the captain’s steward, and I’ve never seen you turn in with the rest of us. Never seen you in our cabin, in the galley, or anyplace a steward should be.” The man crossed his arms and stared at me, his words falling onto the deck like grapeshot; the effect of his statement was just as disastrous as those miniature cannonballs that could blow a man’s life to bits in a snap of a finger.

  Dropping his mask on the deck, Holst came over to me, grasped my forearm, and hauled me to my feet. “What are you to Balashov?” he said. “Quickly now. Tell me and don’t look to him.”

  I knew that I couldn’t resist his questioning. That I should behave in a subordinate way. When I was a boy, in my disguise, he was my superior, and I could not resist his questioning. All I could do was continue my lies and hope he accepted them. Stubbornly, I shook my head. “Nothing. I’m only his steward,” I said.

  “The devil take you as a liar!” the captain’s steward spat out. “The bloody hell you are! Ask him, Mr. Holst, what a steward’s duties are, ask him why he hasn’t been seen by any of the other stewards!”

  “Easy now, Mr. Jakes,” Holst said calmly, not taking his gaze off me. “I’ll do the questioning. What is your name?”

  “Eddie,” I said.

  “Eddie. No surname?”

  I shook my head.

  “Ah, so you are a bastard, then. Born in the stews of the East End, I assume. Well then, Eddie with no surname, since you don’t want to speak the truth, I’ll tell you what I think is the truth.”

  “Go on,” Alex said. “Speak plain. I have no patience for this fignya.”

  “What did you say? I have no ear for Russian.”

  Alex simply watched him, saying nothing, only waiting.

  “I’m implying that he’s not your steward, that he’s something other. No one has ever seen him before apart from your good self, so I’m assuming he’s of some importance to you. I believe you smuggled him aboard in the guise of your steward, and the two of you are engaged in the vile act of sodomy.”

  “What?” I jerked my head up. “No! You’re wrong!”

  Alex stepped forward, his hands clenched into fists.

  “Do you know what happens to sodomites aboard a merchant vessel?” Holst asked me, his fingers biting into my arm. “You and Balashov will be confined in irons below, and once we reach China you’ll be tried by fellow merchant navy captains. If you’re both proved guilty, you’ll be hanged by the neck until you die.”

  Several apprenti
ces shot fearful looks my way. A few stared down at their feet. Water dripped in a steady stream down their shoulders.

  Alex should have left me to drown because I was as good as dead—my life was over.

  “If that isn’t the truth, tell me what is. Who are you to Balashov?”

  I had to tell them who I was. What I was, and face the consequences.

  “Have you had carnal knowledge of each other?” Holst asked, his voice low and careful, but filled with warning. The tone suggested that this was my last chance. If I didn’t speak the truth, his own truth would stand.

  “I . . .” My confession was nearly out of my mouth when Alex stepped forward.

  “Stop this,” he said. And then he nodded. “It’s true. What you say is true.”

  EIGHTEEN

  There was a brief silence after Alex’s confession. “So you admit it, then, Mr. Balashov?” Holst looked as though he couldn’t quite believe it. As though he’d expected Alex to try to find a way out.

  As for me, I could only stand there, riveted to the deck, surprised beyond reason. It was the last thing I ever thought Alex would say, and it took every ounce of wit I had to prevent my face from showing the stunned expression that threatened.

  “Of course I do,” Alex replied. “But you have it wrong. He’s not my steward, nor is he a lad. Despite appearances, she’s a girl. And she’s my wife.” Alex took my hand and pulled me from Holst’s grip. “And I’ll thank you to let her go.”

  Startled by Alex’s revelation, Holst stared at him for a moment, and then with anger simmering in his eyes, he turned and glared at the young sailors accusingly, as though they knew this news before him. He set his gaze on me, next, examining my face with such intensity that I could almost feel his gaze raking against my skin. I waited for recognition to dawn on him, and indeed it didn’t take long. “I know who you are!” he said a moment later. “You’re that girl who came aboard the ship in London—the plant hunter’s daughter. It’s you, is it not?”