by L. A. Meyer
"...and ... and I don't know ... if he had been doin' that to me ... if I would have told on you and Dolley. I don't know."
I worked up a chuckle and said, "Come on, Clarissa, if it was you he was asking that question of, you would've lunged up and bitten off his ear, you know that. Now stop doubting yourself. We don't need that." I closed my eyes again and said no more, but I sensed that she stood there for a while before moving off.
There was no Storytime last night, and there will be none tonight.
I bring myself back to the present and watch the top hatch open and the light pour in once again. As the hooks come in, Abby Pierce comes to me with her petticoat.
"Do ... do you want me to put this over you so they won't see you like this?" she asks. She's as quivery nervous as ever, but she's holding up. Just goes to show, you never can tell who's going to stand steady and who ain't.
"No, thanks, Abby. Just leave it be. And, everybody, play along with this," I say, and scootch myself—ouch ouch ouch!—over to the edge of the Balcony so I can look up at the hatch. And so Mick and Keefe can look down at me. Then I start in to crying.
And it's full-scale, openmouthed, no-holds-barred bawl-ing—tears pour out of my eyes, I buck, I hiccup, I wail, I moan. It ain't hard to do, as I've got plenty to cry about and my back still hurts like hell. When I see the sailors' heads appear at the edge of the open hatch, I pause long enough to look up at them through my teary eyelashes and whimper, "Sorry, lads, this is all the show you'll get today, lads ... boo hoo hoo gasp whimper... and if you're enjoyin' lookin' at what he done to me, then shame on you ... hoo hoo hoo... shame on you both, shame on all of yiz! I thought you was me mates, I did ... snivel, aaaarrrgh, cry, cry, cry..."
Then I lay my head back down on my hands and weep more quietly and wait. Dolley and Barbara go down to handle the hooks. As the first tub is raised, I can hear Mick and Keefe mumbling as they do the job.
...filthy bastard ... there's lots better things to do with a piece like that than flog it half t'death ... and 'e 'ad to pick our game little Cockney girl to beat on ... couldn't pick one of the stuck-up types, no...'e messed up our fun, e did...'taint right.
And wonder of wonders, when the tubs come back in, the one is rinsed and the other is rinsed and filled with clean salt water.
Hmmm...
I think on this for a while and then I think on other things, then what I think is, The girls are ready. I lift my head and announce, "Officers' Call," and Dolley and Clarissa are soon by my side.
Chapter 27
James Fletcher
The Pig and Whistle
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
June 3, 1806
Miss Jacky Faber
Somewhere in the World, God Willing
My Dearest Jacky,
Once again I write letters to a phantom. While I despair of ever seeing you again, I rejoice in the possibility that you might still be alive. I shall recount the events since last I wrote in the faint but fervent hope that someday you might read these lines.
The attempts to clear your name did not go well—the Admiralty remains obstinate in their demands for your return to their custody and I have washed my hands of the whole affair. So be it, I declared, if she and I have to spend our lives in the outer reaches of the world, then that is how it will be. I am sure the Colonies have their charms.
I booked passage for New York the next day, choosing that port instead of Boston in case Admiralty Intelligence was keeping an eye on me and my travels, the better to find you. My father and brother came down to the pier to see me off, and many tears were shed, for we assumed that I might never come back that way again. My mother, also, came down that day, but I sent word that I would not receive her. So from where I stood, I observed her only dimly as a huddled, hunched figure seated alone in the coach.
The voyage itself was a joy—fair winds, gentle seas, good company at the Captain's table, I could not have wished for more—that combined with the anticipated joy of once more holding you in my arms, and this time for good and ever.
That, of course, was not to be. I arrived in New York, made sure I was not being followed, and took a coach, under an assumed name, for Boston. Foolishly, I made plans for our future on the way: I would first see that you were well set up in good lodging, and I would then seek gainful employment before presuming to ask you to wed. After all, how could I ask you to enter such a state without being in a position to keep and care for you in at least a modest manner? I planned first to see if the American Navy had any use for junior lieutenants, and failing that, I would seek a berth on a merchantman.
Arriving in Boston, full of hope, I looked up your attorney, Mr. Pickering, to ascertain your whereabouts, and received the devastating news. Mr. Pickering was most soothing and kind and immediately put me in touch with your man Higgins. I cannot tell you, Jacky, what an invaluable man Higgins is—he put my storming mind to some rest with his calm, concise, and careful telling of the events and his solid suspicions that the disappearance of the girls of the Lawson Peabody was an abduction and not a simple seaborne tragedy. He reported that he had written to me of these happenings, but I did not receive his letter, having already sailed.
Higgins set me up at the Pig and Whistle, where I met many of your friends who could not be more concerned over your welfare. He then took me to the courthouse and showed me the remaining evidence of the crime—the bonnets, the purses, the shawls that came ashore following that awful day.
I have been introduced to your dear friend Miss Amy Trevelyne, and though she is devastated by recent events, she continues to hold up her head, her love for you quite evident.
I have met Mistress Pimm, your headmistress, and found her as formidable as any Bo'sun's Mate. She certainly gave me the once-over. I hope she did not find me wanting as a possible match for one of "her girls." She is steadfast in her belief as to your ultimate deliverance.
I have also met your bold Mr. Randall Trevelyne, brother of Miss Amy, mentioned above. Hmmm. You know, Jacky—it is interesting to note that as I travel this world, I keep encountering boys, yes, and men, too, all of whom have been left in your wake, and yet all of whom continue to feel they have some sort of claim upon your affections.
Even though I know you are foresworn to me, and the fact that I am once again in your heart is a constant comfort to me, this frequent meeting of young males who have had some congress with you—relatively innocent congress, I am sure—causes me to wonder. But then, these are idle jealousies, worthy of neither me nor my memories of you.
Enough of that. Here is what we are doing to resolve the situation: General Howe, father to your classmate Clarissa, has taken over the southern strategy and has ships out combing the southern sea-lanes. Henry Hoffman, beside himself with grief over the loss of his betrothed, Sylvia Rossio, has been dispatched to comb the seamen's dives in the ports from Boston to Philadelphia for any news. He is a superb horseman and can cover a lot of ground. Your coxswain Jim Tanner has been a great help to me in finding my way around these unfamiliar surroundings. He, too, is steadfast in his belief that you will eventually be found safe, and he had to be restrained from setting out in your Morning Star to look for you. Denied that, he continues to haul your traps.
Upon Ezra Pickering's urging, the Honorable Caleb Strong, Governor of Massachusetts, has by diplomatic pouch sent word of this abduction to various embassies in North Africa as we feel this is your most likely destination.
I have met with the parents of many of the girls and have given them some comfort, I believe, in relating your proven competence in dire straits such as these. Those girls could not have a better companion than you in their time of trial.
Hoping that you are at least alive and reasonably well,
I am, your most devoted etc.,
Jaimy
Chapter 28
My back is better. It just feels like a bad sunburn, like those I used to get in the early days on the Dolphin, when we sailed down to the Mediterr
anean and, as things got warm, off went my shirt like the rest of the boys, me not having become a woman yet, and so just like them up top. I got scorched really bad, but eventually I tanned up and didn't burn anymore. Till now.
I can now put on the shirt that Ruth Alden had sewed up so nicely for me. When she had taken the shirt for mending, I told her not to give the needle and thread back and to be very thrifty with the thread as we may need it later, and if they should ask, to tell 'em she dropped them and they fell down into the lower Hold with the rats and they could go get them if they wanted.
Following Sin-Kay's curt morning inspection—he's still smarting from his humiliation by the Captain—and after our breakfast burgoo, we start on the Plan in earnest.
Yesterday, I'd met with Dolley and Clarissa and we agreed that we could tell the rest of the girls everything about what we planned. We brought them up to us by division so we could talk low, and we told them about the Rat Hole, my shiv, and the Plan. All were excited and ready to go, all except one—Elspeth has retreated into herself and has to be made to do the simplest of things, like eating and washing and the rest. She is shunned by the others, even though I tell them not to do that, and she spends her days curled up in a corner. Dolley Frazier and Martha Hawthorne, who are on either side of her in Sin-Kay's line, must pull her to her feet and hold her there till the inspection is over.
"See? You just take out one little chip at a time. Cut down, and when you've got a splinter, cut across to free it," I say, working at the side of the Rat Hole, way back underneath the Stage, with Division Two looking on. "Don't hurry it, as we've got plenty of time—see, like that." A little chip falls free. "Since we'll be working at this constantlike, those little chips will add up and we'll be through in no time. Whatever you do, don't twist the blade. We can't have it broken. Do you see?"
The girls nod. Up over our heads, Division Three is pounding out the dance rhythm, setting up a grand clatter to cover up any sounds we might make.
"What's on the other side, Jacky?" asks Julia.
"I don't know. It's too dark in there. We'll have to wait till we have the Hole big enough to stick our heads in." I did spend some time down here after the flaps had closed, peering through the Hole, and I thought I could see a faint light, maybe like the glow that would filter in at the bottom of a door. I don't know. We'll just have to wait.
I get back to my feet and dust off my underclothes, which is what I am wearing.
"I for one am going to start leaving my dress off after inspection 'cause the work is going to get close and dirty. But, wait, here's a treat." I go over to the niche where my seabag is hidden, pull it out, and open it. I take the bar of soap I knew to be in it and hold it up, and there are exclamations of wonder. "I don't know how much good it will do with the salt water, but it will do some. Make it last, ladies." I give the bar to Minerva, who takes it eagerly.
"Priscilla, since you did such a fine job setting up the lookout rotation, will you set up the work details, two girls to a section, one carving, the other resting? Thanks. I know that's all too much to keep in your head, so I will give you a piece of paper so you can write it down."
I reach in my bag and find my precious little pad of paper. I give her a sheet and a writing implement. She looks at it curiously. "It's called a pencil, a new invention just lately come out of Germany. Much neater than a pen, and see, you can carry it up in your hair. But don't let Sin-Kay see it."
"I won't and I'll get right on this."
"Good. Now send Division One down here."
There was much done today. The Rat Hole rotation was set up in half-hour sections of two girls each, and the chipping away started. By the time the flaps came down and it was too dark to work, we had gained a good three inches upward and one inch to the side. At this rate, I should be able to poke my head through in three or four more days.
Tonight, I resume my story.
"...and then as I lay sprawled on the deck, my hands still bound behind me, the man leaned over me and smiled and made a mock bow. 'Welcome to His Majesty's ship Wolverine, girl. I know you're going to enjoy your stay,' he says, looking me up and down. His teeth are worn gray stubs, and his puffy face bristles with several days' growth of beard. 'But if you ever again call your captain a fool, I will hang you from that yardarm there. Do you understand, girl?'
"Captain? Surely this creature could not be the Captain...."
Much later, when all is quiet, I creep back down to sit with Hughie for a while and hold his hand and tell him about the pretty little horses again.
Chapter 29
"Elspeth, open," I order, holding the spoonful of gruel to her lips. I am sitting on the Balcony and I have her head cradled in the crook of my arm. "Open your mouth."
"No ... let me alone."
"You must eat, Elspeth."
"Just let me die," she whispers. "Just let me go."
"Now what am I going to tell your parents when we get back home? That everybody was saved 'cept you? That won't be a very pleasant duty, Elspeth, and I don't want to have to do it. Now open up." I push the spoon against her lips.
A tear comes out of her eye at the mention of her parents.
"Come on, Elspeth, do it for them if not for yourself."
She opens her mouth and I spoon in the burgoo. When I have gotten it down her, I lay her head back down and leave her in her misery. I go to the Stage, past my Division Three, which is at dance practice, and down into the Pit to check the progress.
Lissette is lying facedown, doing her stint at the Rat Hole. All the girls have taken my advice about wearing our dresses only during Sin-Kay's inspection, so all of us are ghostly white in the gloom. Over our heads the rattle of dancing feet continues, a scarce foot above my head—and rattle they do, as we have decided to put our shoes back on when doing that exercise, to make even more noise so we'll be certain that our actions down here are covered up. I figure that anyone down below on the other side who might hear our carving would reckon that it was just rats doing their ceaseless gnawing. None of the girls, when at their work, has ever reported hearing anything close on the other side, nor has a light ever been seen.
"Let me see, Lissette," I say and she rolls over, out of the way. I get down on my belly and put my head to the Rat Hole. The top of my head fits, but I hang up when I get to my ears. I pull back out and say to the girls gathered about, "A few more days and then maybe we'll get to see what's in there. No sense in getting my head stuck by trying to push it through too quick. After all, the Hole's got to be made big enough to get the largest of us through when we finally go." Dolley coughs, "Ahem!" a not-so-subtle way of reminding us of her physical endowments.
I shift a bit so as to be able to shove my arm through the Hole all the way to my shoulder, then I feel around. There is something to the right that feels like a ... what? A post, a support? I run my hand up the post and encounter a flat surface. Aha! It is a shelf, which is very good, as the overhang of that shelf will hide the ever-widening hole beneath it from whomever might enter. I hope that, anyway.
My hand continues to explore. I next encounter what seems to be a keg—a heavy one, too, because I cannot make it budge when I grunt and push hard on it. My fingers run down the side of it and they hit some things I recognize immediately as nails. Hmmm.
My roaming hand hits nothing else, so I pull it out and look at it. It's dusty, but I see nothing more, no flour or—I sniff my fingers—gunpowder, either.
I get back up and Lissette rolls over again to resume her whittling.
"Not much," I report to those standing about, "just some shelves and kegs ... of nails, probably. I think it must be a storeroom of some kind—one that's not used much. We can only hope that it ain't locked on the other side, but if it is, we'll deal with it once I can get through the Hole." There are murmurs of agreement.
I dust off my hands and go over to the niche where my seabag is hidden. I reach in, take it out, and open it, intending to get another piece of paper for Priscilla C
abot, who says she needs it for the watch rotation. Hmmm... I shall have to advise her to be more thrifty, to write smaller. When I pull out the pad, with it comes my packet of letters from Jaimy, and on top of them, the miniature portrait I had done of him. I look at it in the gloom and I see a fragment of writing on a letter—My Dearest Jacky ... My eyes mist over. I knew these things were in my bag, but I didn't let myself look at them because the other girls had nothing in this regard to comfort them, and ... and I feel breath on my cheek and I look to the side and see a blond tendril of hair falling over my shoulder.
"Why don't you read some of those letters during your charming little Storytime, Jacky dear. I'm sure we'd all enjoy a good laugh."
"Don't you start, Clarissa," I say, with warning in my tone. Her face is a mere inch from mine.
"Oh. Ah won't say a mumblin' word about your little sailor boy," she says, unfazed. "But you know, when we get back to Boston, I just may give that Mr. Fletcher of yours leave to call on me. He seems like a halfway decent-lookin' fellow. It might be amusin' to show him what the company of a real lady is like."
A red steam of rage envelops me and my hands hook into claws, but Clarissa moves away, humming a tune, and I subside, snarling only, "One of these days, Clarissa..."
I hear a short laugh near my right side and I see that it is from Lissette de Lise, taking a break from her stint at carving at the Rat Hole. Her partner, Hermione Applegate, has taken the knife from her and is stretched out, working away. Lissette is seated, cross-legged, on the deck of the Pit.
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.