In the Belly of the Bloodhound: Being an Account of a Particularly Peculiar Adventure in the Life of Jacky Faber

by L. A. Meyer

  It strikes me that, while Clarissa always manages to look beautiful no matter the circumstance, Lissette always manages to look, well, elegant—that long thin neck, long thin nose with flared nostrils, head held just right—maybe there is something to aristocratic breeding, after all.

  "You are so very smart, Jac-kee Fay-bear, I did not know that before, but I do know it now. So very clever," she says, smiling to herself. "But you do not know everything, especially about my friend Clarissa. For instance, you did not know why Clarissa brought the black girl Angelique back to the school with her. Non? As a personal servant? Mais non, she needed none; there were plenty at the school and we have many at our home, too. If she had wanted one, I would have given her two."

  Lissette pauses to brush back a curl from her face. "No, no, she brought her to Boston because she did not want the girl to be 'breeded'—is that right? What do you say when a girl animal is put with a man animal to make her have babies—ah, bred, right? Just like the 'bread' we eat, right? You English and your crazy language. Eh, bien, when General Howe saw the thing in the paper about slavery, he go insane. He takes Clarissa and says, 'Why am I sending you to that school? To learn the ways of damned Yankees? No! I am going to send your slave Angelique back to Belvedere so you cannot give her back her time!' Huh! Only time I ever see Clarissa beg. She begs that the girl not be sent back. She says it was only a cruel joke played by a classmate. Finally the General, he relents and goes home." Lissette cocks an eye at me. "If the girl had been sent back to Virginia and that breeding thing had been done to her because of your little trick with the newspaper ad, that would have been—what is the word? Ah, the 'irony.' Yes, that's it. The irony. Excusez-moi, s'il vous plaît, I must get back to the carving now."

  Damn...

  Up in our kip, as my closest sisters and I now call our spot on the Balcony, I lean my back against the hull and think about what Lissette had said about Clarissa.

  Back at the Lawson Peabody, Angelique had told me about that business about "giving them back their time." Sometimes I would go up to the attic to visit with her and she seemed glad of the company. I showed her how to get up on the widow's walk so she could get some fresh air, and we would stand there and look out over the city and talk.

  "Oui," she said one day when I asked her about the phrase. "They do not say 'set free' because they like to make it sound as if a simple bargain was made—that we would willingly give up our time on this earth in return for being brought into the light of Christianity and their civilization. You see, they were doing us the greatest of favors, and so they feel no guilt."

  I remember that as I look at the rows upon rows of hanging neck chains clanging back and forth in rhythm with the pitch and roll of the ship. There is one swinging on either side of me as I sit thinking of the willing captives they so recently held. We hardly notice the chains or the constant sound they make anymore, they have become so much a part of our daily lives. Horrible things, yet we take them as normal, now. Strange, what you can grow used to in this life.

  Angelique told me of other practices of the slaveholders—how they would lie with the black girls they owned when they got old enough to get with child, and when the babies were born and grew up a bit, they would be sold. I shook my head in disbelief—imagine, selling your own children—what a world this is.

  I'm shaken out of my reverie by the call, "Hooks coming!" from the lookout. I get to my feet and head down to the Pit.

  It's showtime.

  After the day's performance, my first show for the men since the flogging, I bid good day to Mick and Keefe and I cinch up my pants and start toward the Balcony, intending to sit and look out with Katy, but before I get there, Constance comes up to me on the Stage, shaking with outrage.

  "I think you enjoy doing that awful thing, I really do!"

  "Well, Connie, I do like to give an audience its money's worth. But if you'd like to take over for me, I'd be glad to step aside." I look around at her back. "You've got a nice trim tail. I think the boys would enjoy a peek. Shall I put you on the docket for the day after tomorrow? Yes? Well, consider yourself on it!"

  There is laughter at this from several girls who are lying on the Balcony, their heads over the side. Constance gapes at all this, her mouth open. Then she snaps it shut, turns, and stalks off.

  "Don't you pay that one any mind, Jacky," says Rose Crawford, sitting up in our kip with Annie and Sylvie. "We all know what you do for us."

  "Thanks, Sister," I say, going up and settling myself among them. Once again I lift Elspeth's head and place it in my lap and stroke her hair, and again she does not respond but only looks off into the space of the Hold. Katy Deere is over at the bars, looking out.

  "What do you see, Katy?" I ask.

  She is silent for a bit and then sits back on her haunches, her eyes always on what's happening on the other side of the bars. "Them two ain't the only ones watchin' you prance around down there."

  Trust Katy to be watching what's happening on the edges when everyone else is watching the main show.

  "No, there's another—back there on the port-side aft is where he peeks in. He's the same one what dumps food slops over the side. I know it's food slops and not the other, 'cause the birds come around every time."

  Hmmm. I think to myself, That's gotta be the cook, or at least his helper. And I bet there's sharks gathering under us, too, for those selfsame slops.

  "Do you hear what Mick and Keefe call him?"

  "They call him Cookie," she says, letting out a rare chuckle. Well, I reckon that clears that up. So he's the cook ... very good information to have.

  I'm thinking of the cook and looking down into the Pit at some of the rats skittering around the edges. The girls have gotten used to the rats and the rats have gotten used to us, but not so familiar with us that we can get near enough to catch them. They have found new ways to get into the rest of the ship and so leave us alone at the Rat Hole.

  "Sure wish we could get some of those millers," I say, wistfully.

  "What are millers?" asks Annie, beside me.

  "Sailors call rats 'millers' when they catch them to eat them." "EE-eeeeuuuwww...," from the girls gathered about. "After they've been at sea awhile, all the fresh meat runs out, and so they turn to the millers. It's generally the Bo'sun who runs the business—catching and selling them to the officer's mess, and to crew members who can afford to buy them," I say. "I've eaten them many times. They're pretty good."

  "Yuck," says Rebecca, who has been listening in. Some others, too, express disgust.

  "But why 'millers'?" asks Annie.

  "Because the rats generally live on the ship's supply of flour. 'Millers,' 'flour,' get it? And since they live on good, wholesome stuff, it's all right to eat 'em in return."

  "I won't eat one," says Sylvie, firmly.

  "What's the difference between a rat and a squirrel? A bushy tail, is all," I say. "But who cares? We can't catch 'em, anyway."

  Katy turns and looks down at me. "Come up here," she says.

  Wondering, I go up next to her.

  "See that sail right there?" She points at a low, scudding sail. I nod. "See that it's got pieces of wood stuck in it?"

  "Right. Those are called 'battens.' They keep the edges of the fore- and aft-sails stiff, so they don't flap in the wind" The battens are about four or five feet long and slip into sleeves sewn in the sails. They are thin and whippy so that they bend with the curve of the sail.

  "Well," says Katy, "you git me some o' them battens and some cord and I'll git you all them critters you want, whatever you wanna call 'em."

  I take the matter under serious advisement, as Katy Deere is of a very serious nature and does not spend her time in idle chatter.

  But now it's off to French class, and then it's my turn at the Rat Hole, for no one is excused from that duty.

  That night, after the hymn, and when everybody is settled in and I hear regular breathing all about me, I again creep down to sit with Hughie for
a while. I reach out to him and ruffle his hair because I know he likes it, and then I run my hand down the side of his face and feel the deep scar that furrows his cheek.

  "Who give you that, Hughie?"

  "Mister."

  "Why?"

  "'Cause I was bad."

  "How were you bad, Hughie?"

  "There was this girl ... last time ... one of them dark ones ... she had this little baby an' she made signs to show me that the little baby needed more food ... good food. So I snuck and got it for her. Mister catched me at it. Said I was bein' bad ... hit me with his stick and blood come out."

  I sense that he is rocking slowly back and forth at the memory of this.

  "Didn't matter none, though ... Little baby died couple days later ... so did the girl. Mister made me put 'em over the side ... said they was dead 'cause I was bad."

  I take several shuddering breaths to calm myself, then say, "Don't you ever think that you were bad, Hughie, 'cause you never, ever was. You was always just the best boy and that's the truth of it. Now you think about the pretty horses and ponies and fillies back at the Lawson Peabody stables when you and me and the rest of the gang get back there, Hughie," I say, resting my head against the bars, my hand now in his, my voice going on in a singsong way. "First, there's my little mare Lily; she's such a sweet thing, you won't have any trouble with her at all. But Brinker—now there's one you'll have to have a firm hand with as he is a bit wild." I sense Hughie's head bobbing up and down in solemn agreement. "And then there's Molly, the hot-running bay—you'll have to make special sure that she's cooled down after a run—and Jupiter, Clarissa's horse; now, there's a handful, I can tell you..."

  He falls asleep after a while, dreaming, I'm sure, of horses and saddles and meadows and hay, and I put his hand gently down and go back to my kip.

  Good night, Hughie. You just sleep now and dream of the pretty little horses.

  Chapter 30

  "Oh, please, God, in your mercy, please let him catch us!" prays Constance Howell.

  We are all standing on the rear Balcony watching the ship that was spotted early this morning and which has been getting closer by the hour. The men on deck have been frantically making as much sail as they can to draw away, but the ship just gets nearer. We watch from the Balcony, our hearts pounding. There is a shout, "It's an American!" and sure enough, we can now see the colors of the flag at the top of the mast.

  Elspeth is suddenly by my side, the dirty blue ribbon dangling in front of her now hopeful face. She clutches my arm, saying, "Oh, I just know my papa has sent that ship to rescue me! I just know it."

  There are cheers from other girls, too, and cries of despair from the men outside. I know that the rest of the girls hope for rescue by this ship, but I do not. I am sick with dread.

  "It's the good old Constitution!" joyously shouts some girl, and another cheer goes up. Sure enough, it is that ship—I know, because I had seen her when we were pa- trolling the Barbary Coast back in '04. But what's she doing here? I wonder in spite of my fear.

  The Constitution looks like it's now about three miles away, on our port quarter. At this rate they'll be alongside of us in two or three hours. There are flags raised on the American frigate, no doubt signalling Captain Blodgett to heave to and back his sails so that the Bloodhound can be boarded and inspected, but the Captain, himself at the wheel, just shakes his fist at the approaching ship and shouts curses.

  Several of the girls have joined hands and are dancing in a circle, singing. Hepzibah is lining up other girls, saying, "Oh, we just must have Mr. Handel's 'Hallelujah Chorus' from the Messiah, as we are truly delivered." And then Clarissa is at my left hand, smirking. "See," she says, "we didn't need you after all." Now Constance is at my right hand, saying smugly, "That's right, you know. God delivered us, not Jacky Faber. You ought to be ashamed for the way you've behaved."

  There is a low booommm, and a puff of smoke drifts away from the bow of the Constitution. They have fired a warning shot across our bow.

  "Shut the flaps," shouts Captain Blodgett, and down they come, plunging us into darkness in the middle of the day. The girls' former joy has been considerably dampened. We sit there in the dark and wait. A hand goes into mine, and I know that it's Rebecca's. I give it a hopeful squeeze.

  There is another boom. Then the flaps on the starboard side suddenly go back up and light pours into the Hold. Oh, no! I realize in despair, the side that can't be seen from the Constitution! And these men can't be caught with the evidence that is us!

  There is a rattling of keys in locks, and Sin-Kay and Chubbuck and the Mate Dunphy hurry in and onto the Stage. They are followed by Mick and Keefe and two other sailors, all of whom rush down into the Pit.

  "Get in the line!" orders Sin-Kay. "Now!"

  The girls, shocked, start to do it.

  "No, no!" I shout. "Don't do it! They're going to kill us! Fight! Fight!"

  Dunphy rushes up to me and sticks his pistol into my mouth and grinds the barrel hard against the back of my throat and snarls, "One more word and I'll blow your brains out!" I gag and choke and can say nothing. The line forms up raggedly with much moaning and crying. I hear Clarissa putting up resistance: "God damn you to hell! Get your filthy hands—" then a thud and then no more from her.

  As I knew they were going to, the sailors bring up that horror: the marching chain. Rebecca is the first in line and she shrinks back in terror as a man reaches for her. But he takes her roughly by the arm and puts the first neck manacle in the chain around her thin little neck and snaps it shut. Then he takes the next in line, Ruth Alden, and does the same to her, and so on down the line. Piteous pleas for mercy fall on uncaring ears as the grim work proceeds. Sally, then Hermione, then Helen, Dorothea, and my poor Annie, then Priscilla and on and on till Katy Deere, and then it's Mick himself who clamps the cold hard thing around my own neck and says, "Sorry, kid," and then does the same to Dolley, and then Elspeth, who is already dead in the eyes, and then Martha, and Clarissa, groggy from Chub-buck's blow, then Connie, her hands up in prayer, then Wilhelmina, and Chrissy and Judy and Lissette, and on down the line to Sylvie, then Hyacinth, Barbara, Caroline, Hepzibah, Frances, and finally, Julia Winslow.

  When they are done, there is still a length of chain with neck manacles hanging from it leading out from the one on poor Julia's neck. Chubbuck picks up that length of chain and pulls Julia toward the hatchway. She has no choice but to follow, as do all the others in her wake—those who resist are hit and kicked till they move along.

  The light blinds us as we are led on deck. Chubbuck takes his end of the chain over to an opening in the rail where a gangway might ordinarily be put, but as my eyes become used to the light, I see that an anchor, a big one, weighing maybe a hundred pounds, sits there, instead. It is poised right on the edge.

  "Hurry up!" yells the Captain from the quarterdeck. "They're almost upon us!"

  Chubbuck hastily secures the anchor to the end of the chain—the last neck manacle snapped shut around the shaft of the anchor does the job. He then wastes no time in kicking the anchor over the side.

  The chain plays out and suddenly Julia—dear delicate little Julia Winslow—is jerked over the side to follow the anchor down, Julia, who hardly makes a splash when she hits the water. Then it's Frances who follows her in, then Hepzibah, then Caroline, then Barbara, Hyacinth, and good-bye Sylvie! and then Abby, Cloris, and splash by dismal splash, they each go over, dragged down by the relentless weight of the anchor. We are pulled forward, step by step. I try to hold on to the rail to slow down that awful pull, but Dunphy hits my hand with his club and I can't do nothin' but let go and be dragged—oh God—dragged along with the rest. Splash by splash, now Cathy, then Lissette, who holds her head high all the way to the edge, but her neck, too, is jerked violently sideways and she goes over and down with the rest. Now Judy, now Chrissy, now Wilhelmina, then Connie, her hands staying together in prayer as she goes headfirst into the sea. Clarissa is next and the last thing
she does on this earth is spit in Chubbuck's eye, and then she's over, too, in spite of all the life that was in her. I'm getting closer now, closer to my own end, close enough to see those ahead of me disappear into the depths ... Good-bye, Martha, and then Elspeth's pathetic splash. I hold Dolley's hand in mine till it's wrenched from my grip and then it's my turn to feel the awful weight and I am pulled over and into the water and Katy and the rest are dragged in after me.

  I futilely hold my breath as long as I can as I go down and down. I can see those who have gone before me, their dresses looking like black orchids floating in the dark blueness, their white legs and feet twinkling like the middle parts of the flowers before they wink out of sight, down into the depths, one by one.

  I can't hold my breath any longer and I close my eyes and I open my mouth and my lungs fill and I choke—oh God— I choke, and then I start screaming and a part of my dying self wonders how I could be screaming underwater, but still I scream and scream and...

  ...and I open my eyes again and I find myself not hurtling down to the blackness at the bottom of the sea but instead in the darkness of the belly of the Bloodhound, being comforted by Annie and Sylvie and Rebecca, who are holding my screaming, choking, and shaking self and pleading with me to wake up, Jacky! Oh, please wake up!

  Chapter 31

  The work continues. On this afternoon, after Chorus and burgoo, I gather Clarissa and Dolley to talk about long-range plans. We sit on the Stage, cross-legged, knees touching, in a circle of three.

  "We've turned east," I say, "and that means we're heading over to Africa. From what I can see of the sun, and judging from the heat, I suspect we were well off the coast of Florida when they put the helm over."