by L. A. Meyer
It’s gonna be difficult, but I will have order on my ship, by God!
David Jones is the last of the crew to board, and I do not have to lecture him, as I see, down on the dock, Annie Jones, my very good friend and wife to the rogue, reading him the riot act with clenched fist on hip and finger on his nose. He laughs, wraps her in his strong embrace, plants a goodbye kiss on her mouth, and then bounds aboard with a final salute.
“Goodbye, Annie, my love! Keep your legs crossed and your knees together and your Davy will be back soon!”
“Tend to your sails, Mr. Jones, and never mind about Annie’s knees,” I say sternly as he gains the deck. “You shall dream about them soon enough, sailor, when you are far away at sea.” He knuckles his brow in mock obeisance to me and goes to the buntline that will raise the main sail on my beautiful little schooner.
I go to the rail and lean over, shouting, “Don’t worry, Annie. I’ll keep an eye on the rascal! Count on it!”
She grins and waves, and I wave back, then go to my usual place on the quarterdeck, where I place one foot to either side of the centerline, the better to feel the movement of my ship. I am already in my usual shipboard attire—loose white shirt tucked into my butter-soft white leather Shawnee skirt over my cut-off short drawers. My feet, of course, are bare, the better to grip the soon to be wet and slanted deck.
As I wait to get underway, I have to smile in recalling Ezra’s expression yesterday as I told him of my last remaining stash of the Santa Magdalena’s gold.
“Yes, Ezra, I left three bars of gold in a little underwater cave off Key West just in case I might need them some day. Looks like that day has come, so I shall go down and get it. There’s a little brass-bound chest down there as well, which I believe is filled with coins and jewels.”
“Who knows about this?”
“Only Joannie Nichols. I stashed the stuff with her floating by my side. I have told her to pack her swimming stuff, and she is ecstatic, of course, but she does know how to keep her mouth shut.”
“But what of . . .”
“I will only be taking those of my crew who were in on the original plot. Davy and Tink, of course, and Joannie. I’d take Higgins, too, but he is not here, worse luck, as I miss him so. They all knew of the details. Jemimah figured everything out, so she’s coming, too. Jim Tanner and Daniel Prescott were not privy to everything, except to the fact they were well rewarded when we got back. John Thomas and Finn McGee were delighted with their sudden good fortune, which they, of course, blew away in no time, in true sailor-ashore fashion. And there’s you, too, dear Ezra, who will have to handle the disposition of what will soon be coming into the coffers of Faber Shipping Worldwide.”
“Hmmm . . . well, that can be arranged. Do be careful, Miss.”
“I will be careful, Ezra. Just a simple run to New Orleans, drop off the girls, cruise down to Key West, harvest some sponges for cover, pick up the remaining treasure, back to New Orleans to pick up the new crop of girls, and then back to good old Boston. What could be simpler?”
“In regard to you, Miss Faber, ‘simple’ is a word I seldom use.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Ezra, everything will be fine, a simple little cruise down the coast, not bothering anybody.”
In a minute we’ll haul in the gangway and be off and—
There is a clatter of hooves on the wharf and I look over to see . . . Clarissa?
It is indeed she, mounted on her horse, Jupiter, clad in an elegant red riding habit, and looking not at all happy.
“Clarissa!” I call. “Whatever is the matter?”
“Daddy is being just horrid about the marriage thing and I will not have it! He has sent men after me! They mean to take me back to our plantation! You must hide me!” She leaps off the horse and tosses the reins to Annie, who catches them and stands there astounded.
I go to the rail. “Why don’t you go stay with Lissette?”
“That is the first place they would look,” she says, steaming.
“How about the school? Mistress would protect you.”
“Not from my father, she wouldn’t.”
“Hmm . . . Well, you could stay in my digs at the Pig and Whistle, but . . . Boston is a small city and it wouldn’t take long for them to find you.”
“Damn, damn, damn, and damn!” she shouts, a small but undeniably elegant bundle of inchoate rage.
Hmmm . . . I’m thinking to myself, as the evil wells up in me, my old tormentor standing before me in need of my help . . . There is another possibility, sweet sister of my soul . . .
“We are leaving for New Orleans within the next few minutes and you are welcome to go with us . . . if you have the fare as a passenger. The cost is one hundred dollars, round trip.”
“I don’t have any money!” she snarls, looking back over her shoulder. I, too, hear the unmistakable sound of approaching horsemen.
“You should learn to carry some with you, dear, as it sometimes comes in handy when dealing with the common folk,” I say, smiling wickedly. “However, you could sign on as crew, and even be paid for your labor as you escape your pursuers.”
“How so?” she asks, mystified.
“You could come aboard as Second Cook’s Helper, under Mrs. Jemimah Moses. Five dollars a week, room and board. What do you say?”
I cross my arms and wait for her reply.
She gazes up at me with a look of pure hatred, but then says, “All right, but I will get you for this.”
“Very well, Seaman Recruit Howe, you may come aboard,” I say grandly. “First Cook’s Helper Ordinary Seaman Joannie Nichols here will show you to your berth and acquaint you with your duties.”
Clarissa storms up the gangway to be greeted by a grinning Joannie.
“This way, milady,” says Joannie, doing a mock curtsy and leading the way below.
I go back to my usual station on the quarterdeck and call out, “Bring in the gangway, throw off all lines, and set sail for the South!”
There is a cheer from my crew, but not, I suspect, from Clarissa.
Oh, I exult, this is going to be a fine, fine cruise!
PART II
Chapter 10
We slip down the East Coast of the United States, and so far it is an easy voyage—the weather is mild and we have a fair breeze behind us. Everything is calm . . . except for Clarissa Worthington Howe . . . of the Virginia Howes.
“I will not peel potatoes!” she announces when we are not far out and preparations are being made for the noon meal. “Least of all for a nigra cook! The very idea!”
We are out on the main deck, nose to nose.
“Oh, yes, you will, Clarissa,” I snarl. “Everyone works when we are underway. If a sailor will not work, he is put off. If you will not work, I will put you off, as well.”
She looks over the rail at the water rushing by and says, a bit nervously, “You wouldn’t dare . . .”
“Make you walk the plank? No, my dear, though the thought of your well-born blond head sinking beneath the waves is an image most charming to my mind right now,” I say, grinning through my bared teeth. “But, no. What I will do is go into the next port and have you rowed in and put ashore. I will give you enough money for overland passage back to Virginia or Boston, or wherever else you want to go. As the Captain of this ship, by the Law of the Sea, I am the absolute ruler of this vessel and all on it. If I were to give the order, Seaman Thomas here would bind you to that mast there, bare your back, and give you an even dozen of the cat-o’-nine-tails’ loving touch! Is that not true, John Thomas?”
“That’s right, Cap’n,” answers the grinning sailor, hugely enjoying this little exchange, as are the rest of the people on the deck—my crew and many of Mrs. Bodeen’s girls who are out taking the fresh sea air. “And the claws of the Cat are sharp, believe you me. I have her stripes on me back to prove it. You want me to lash her up now, Skipper?”
Much hoots and laughter are heard all about on that. Clarissa stands there steaming and
saying nothing, plainly remembering the whipping I took tied bare-back to the mast of the Bloodhound. She merely drills me with her furious gaze. Strange, I think, standing there, facing her down, how those cold blue eyes can sometimes look so hot.
“But I would never do that to you, Clarissa, my dear Sister, for I do love and admire you, in some sort of twisted way,” I say, thrusting a bundle of clothes to her. “Here. Take these and put them on. You will find this gear much more comfortable than that riding habit you are wearing. Things will get more and more warm as we head south.”
She glares at me, ignoring the bundle. It is my old Powder Monkey outfit from my days as a convict on the Lorelei Lee—blousy white cotton top above, loose white trousers below. I believe it will serve her well here.
“Give it up, Sister, and you shall find it to your benefit. Yes, we work hard here on the Nancy B., but we also have fun. Lots of fun. Keep that in mind. Now go below and tend to your duties, as we attend to ours.”
She glares, she fumes, she smokes, she burns, but she does finally snatch the clothes from my hand and go below to change and, yes, to peel potatoes.
Later, when I go down into the mess deck to see how things are going with the cargo, where some are seasick and in their bunks, but most are all right, I spy Jemimah cooking at her stove, and seated around her are Daniel, Joannie, and Clarissa Worthington Howe, all heads down and peeling away, while Jemimah’s deep voice is intoning . . . and by’n’by, Brother Fox comes by the pond lookin’ for somethin’ to eat, him bein’ powerful hungry, when he sees Brother Bullfrog sittin’ on a lily pad . . .
Ah, yes, it is so good to be back at sea and on the Nancy B.
Chapter 11
James Emerson Fletcher
State Street
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
June 20, 1809
Charles Chen
House of Chen
Rangoon, Burma
Honorable Chen,
I am pleased to report that I have arrived in Boston, and, as instructed, am making inquiries into proper quarters for setting up your trading company, HOC Oriental Shipping.
I know you will be as pleased as I was to learn that our mutual friend Jacky Faber has recently arrived on these shores, in apparently good health and spirits. My joy at learning this was tempered somewhat by the news that she had recently departed on a voyage to deliver passengers of a particular nature to New Orleans in Louisiana, USA. However, I was cheered by the fact that it is not an especially long journey and she will be back in several weeks.
I find that she has been throwing money around at an amazing rate, spending like the sailor she is. Faber Shipping Worldwide has recently acquired the Pig and Whistle Publick House & Inn, new corporate offices on State Street, and the Emerald Playhouse, a large theater that was formerly a barn. I begin to strongly suspect that some of the charges against her for misappropriation of the King’s gold might not be totally false. Oh well, we have both suffered enough to make up for any lapses in her judgment.
I attempted to rent a room at the Pig and Whistle so as to be there when she returned, but was disappointed to find that . . . “All the rooms are let, Sir, sorry . . . but there is one down at Faber Shipping headquarters on State Street, very nice, very comfortable, with a good view of the harbor. Only two dollars a night, dinners here at the Pig included. Oh, good, Sir. Ravi here will show you to your quarters.”
I recognized Maudie the barkeep from my visit here before, when the girls of the Lawson Peabody were kidnapped and headed for a life of slavery in North Africa. She did not recognize me in my disguise, hunchbacked with eye patch and hooded cloak, leaning on a stick, but the little boy Ravi gazed at me with a certain penetrating interest, his big black eyes looking me over, top to bottom. I had met him very briefly on the Lorelei Lee back there off Australia, so he should not remember me, but still, he is a very bright little lad, so I do not know . . . He ushered me into my new billet with great politeness . . . “We have great hopes you will enjoy your stay, Sahib. Clean linen and much good food at the Piggy and Whistle, you bet. Anything you need, you come see Ravi and he fix.”
I found out from Ravi that Jacky has established an art studio across the hall from me. That shall prove interesting in the future, as she was always good at that sort of thing and I am most curious as to what she has come up with lately.
Tomorrow I shall seek out a lawyer to set up your corporation. I would like to engage Ezra Pickering, as I know him to be a fine man, but I fear there would be a conflict of interests there, as he is the Clerk of Faber Shipping Worldwide. I have heard that Malcolm Mudgeon enjoys a good reputation, and I shall seek him out.
Please send my warmest regards to your daughter, Sidrah, my great friend and kind solace in my time of need, and to Master Kwai Chang. Assure him that I continue to heed his wise words as I make my way through this life.
Your humble servant,
Cheung Tong
Chapter 12
“I sure hope that boy been seein’ to waterin’ my garden,” says Jemimah. “If’n he ain’t, he’s gonna get his tail tanned a few shades darker than it already is.”
We’re at dinner, a few days out of New Orleans, having made the turn around the Florida Keys, and heading northwest.
“Don’t worry, Jemimah,” I say. “Ravi’s a good kid and he won’t fail.”
Old habits die hard. One of the first things Jemimah did upon setting up residence in Boston was to plant a vegetable garden behind the Pig. “Plenty of good dirt, plenty of good manure, be a shame to let it lie fallow. An insult to the Lord who gives us the good earth to till.”
I took that advice to heart and set up a little patch of my own—about four-foot square, well spread with horse manure, with a little fence all around. Yes, I dropped some beet seeds in, but mainly what I did was cut up my last Spanish purple mushroom cap, soak the pieces in warm water, and then bury them a few inches under the topsoil. Who knows? At least I’ll get some nice beets.
Mrs. Bodeen’s girls have been fed, and now I’m seated at the head of the table with my crew about me for the second serving, except for the two on watch above. Joannie and Daniel have passed the plates around and poured the drinks and Jemimah now sits to my left, while Clarissa sits to my right. To her credit, she has reconciled herself to sitting at the same table with a black person.
Ravi, of course, wanted to come on this voyage, but I couldn’t let that happen. He was not along on the Santa Magdalena salvage expedition and must not know about it. He is a bright, inquisitive little fellow and would quickly figure out what I would be doing down there below the salt. I told him he was needed at the Pig to tend the garden and to hand out the wooden nickels. I assured him I would take him along on the next voyage, so he took it all in good grace.
In spite of my precautions in that regard, however, it did turn out that there was another onboard who had also not been on that trip, and therein lies a problem—how to get rid of my unexpected guest when the time comes.
I cut my eyes to Clarissa and come to a decision.
“Clarissa,” I say, “are you up for a bit of fun?”
She eyes me suspiciously, a breaded pink shrimp poised between her perfect lips. “Knowing you, I can only suppose it will entail some indignity to my person,” she says before the perfect, small white teeth descend to crush the shrimp and slide it down her slim white neck.
“Not at all, Sister mine,” I say, smiling at the thought of various indignities I could impose upon her before banishing them from my mind as idle and unworthy speculation. “But have you ever been to New Orleans?”
“No,” she answers, eyebrows raised in question.
“Well, Clarissa, it is a wonderful place, a city so full of life and charm that it will take your breath away. We will be there in a few days to deliver Mrs. Bodeen’s girls to the House of the Rising Sun. We will have to give Mrs. Babineau a week to prepare the next batch of girls for the voyage north, and during that time, I plan to take the Na
ncy B. down to Key West to gather sponges for sale back in Boston.” Groans from my crew on that pronouncement. I send a severe glare down the table . . . Come on, you sods, you know there will be at least several days’ liberty in New Orleans, so put a sock in it.
“Sounds wondrous exciting,” grumbles Clarissa, lifting wineglass to lips and taking a great gulp.
“It is not exciting at all,” I say, “but a ship of the Blue Anchor Line does not travel with an empty hold.” It is the practical tradesman in me and I will not deny it.
“So what?”
“So I know someone at the House of the Rising Sun who might delight in showing you the wonders of New Orleans. In return for your having done your duty on the Nancy, I shall introduce you to her.”
I see a flicker of interest in this.
“Yes?”
“We’ll leave you there in good hands, go down to dive for the sponges, and then pick you up on the way back. How does that sound?”
“Sounds better than watchin’ you pull up dirty ole sponges.”
“Good. But you gotta remember to be careful—New Orleans is not Boston, nor is it Richmond, not by a long shot.
“All right,” she says in her long, slow drawl, her eyes hooded, her mouth in a slight smile of anticipation.
And so all is set . . . and I hope I am right in this . . .
Actually, I must admit that soon, against all odds, Clarissa had gotten herself into the life of the ship. When I pull out my fiddle and we have music and dancing of an evening, as we often do, she joins right in. I have even heard her laugh a few times. Early on, she gave me a poke with her elbow as we stood watching the girls capering about the upper deck, laughing and telling rude jokes . . . “Just who are these women and where are they going?”