by L. A. Meyer
I leave the lifeboat and re-lash the canvas. I creep back across the deck to the forward hatchway and I see that the so-called lookout is still asleep. If caught, that snooze would have gotten him an even dozen lashes in the Royal Navy, and that's in peacetime—during a time of war, maybe even a noose. Here, he just slumbers on.
I can't resist.
I pad over to the port-side lifeboat, unsecure the canvas, and crawl inside. Might as well at least start the disabling of this boat, I'm thinking. I feel around and find the boom and the mainsheet coiled beneath it. The mainsheet is a line that goes up to a pulley on the boom, and it is used to trim the sail. Why it's called a sheet rather than a line is beyond me, but, hey, a lot of maritime terms don't make any sense. 'Cept to us sailors, of course.
I pull out my shiv and cut off the mainsheet, right at the boom. Then I sit there and tie a special knot in the end—what you do is make two loops in the line near the end and then whip the bitter end around them and end up by pushing the end through the loop that's left and pulling it tight by opening up the opposite loop. If you whip it around three or four times, it's called a slip noose, but if you put eight turns on it, ah, then it becomes Old Jack Hemp—the hangman's knot. I whip it eight times.
I crawl back outside and rerig the canvas. There is no sound, except the creaking of the rigging and the snoring of the lookout. I check to make sure that no one else is about and then I creep up behind the sleeping man and gently place the noose over his head and softly place it down on his shoulders. He snorts but does not wake up. I don't have to tighten it—this will do fine.
Time to go back to the Hold. I go to the hatch and down the first ladder and along the passageway. There's the galley ... and I peek in. There are portholes on the side and enough moonlight comes in that I can make out a teakettle on top of the stove. Oh, for a cup of tea ... My greed overcomes me and I tiptoe over to it and pull off the lid and stick my nose in. Ahhh ... it's still warm, it's—
Uh-oh ... Someone's coming! Footsteps are coming from the sleeping berth!
I put back the lid, drop to the floor, roll under the stove, and hold my breath.
A man walks in and I hear him strike a flint, then a lamp is lit, flooding the room with light. I see his feet shuffling around not two yards from me. He grumbles and I hear him opening the stove door and shoving in sticks of wood. The fire within starts to crackle. There's more clattering of metal cups and pots and two more sets of feet come into the galley.
"Tea up yet, Cookie?" comes a thick voice. "Arf a mo', Mick," says Cookie, which in Cockney means in a minute.
"Um," says Mick, settling himself down on a bench. I scootch as far back under as I can. "Bloody watches, disturbing a man's sleep for no reason. Out in the middle o' the goddamn ocean."
I can see Mick's legs and knees from under the stove—if he took a mind to bend down, he could see me as well. Damn! I could have been back in my kip by now if I hadn't—
"Is that Carruthers up yet?" asks a voice I recognize as Keefe's. "He's's'posed to be on helm"
"I give 'im a shake," says Mick. "That's as close as I'll get to that cove."
"Tea's up."
"Thanks, Cookie."
There is the sound of tea being poured into tin cups and slurped. Then there is a sudden movement and a face bends down under the stove to peer at me. I stiffen, but it is not a human face, no, it is the face of a very curious cat. It comes up to me, nose to nose, and sniffs.
Nice pussy, I mouth silently as I stroke the fur on her back just in front of her tail, that spot where all cats love to be scratched. She purrs ... Not so loud, pussy, please...
"What's to eat?"
"Just some johnnycake, is all, and don't complain. I do what I can."
"Well, let's have it, then." Sounds of munching. Oh, what I would do for some johnnycake, I think, drooling in spite of my precarious position.
Another set of feet enters the room. "Gimme somethin', and be quick about it," the owner of the feet growls, and there is more rattling of mess gear. Keefe's own feet move to the other side of the kitchen. I think I recognize the growling voice. "Damn head still hurts from where that bitch hit me. If I ever find out which one it was, I'll kill 'er, don't care what the Cap'n says, the filthy sod." Yep, Carruthers is the cove who tried to nab Annie, for sure.
Cookie chuckles, then says, "Prolly was that Jacky girl, I'll bet. She's a real pistol, she is." It's plain that Cookie ain't afraid of Carruthers like Mick and Keefe are. Every ship has to have its bully, and I'm thinkin' this bloke is the Bloodhound's very own specimen of the breed.
"She'll be a dead pistol if I get aholt of 'er. I wouldn't even do 'er before I kilt 'er. Just take a club and smash 'er bleedin' head in, see 'ow she likes it done to her," he says.
"Now, now, Eben," says the cook, "then she wouldn't be able to do her little dance now, would she?"
There follows a lively discussion of the charms of my various parts that makes my face flush under the watch cap. Men, I swear...
But not all seem to appreciate my essential loveliness.
"I seen 'er do her little act. Warn't worth watchin'...scrawny little midget," says Carruthers, rather uncharitably, I'm thinking. "Now that blondie, if she ever does somethin' like that, you come and tell me quick or I'll kick both yer asses."
"Jacky did say that blondie was itching for a bath on the deck. Coo, wouldn't that be somethin'. Make this damned trip almost worthwhile," says Keefe.
"Jacky is it, now?" sneers Carruthers. "Sounds like our Keefie 'as made himself a little friend"
"Jacky ain't so bad," says Mick in my defense. "Just wish she hadn't said that thing about the Captain killin' us all when we get over there. And me poor body in the water and all ... I ain't afraid of dyin' 'cause a seaman's a fool if he don't know that 'e might end up down there wi' Davy Jones someday ... But when she said that thing about the crabs nippin' off me privates, well, that made it real personal-like ... Wrecked me slumbers, it has."
"What thing did she say about the Captain killin' us?" demands Carruthers. I'm surprised he didn't know yet. Shame on you, Mick, for not planting my little worm of doubt more quickly throughout the crew.
"She said that the Captain planned on killing us when we got to Africa so's we couldn't blab about taking these high-toned girls and get Simon and the rest of 'em hanged. Said the Captain and Dunphy and Chubbuck was the only ones on board with guns and swords to do the killin' when the time came. That's what she said."
"Hmmm...," says Carruthers.
"And that girl sayin' she saw a black ghost walk through the side o' the ship last night. I ain't had a peaceful moment since, I ain't," whines Keefe. "This is me and Mick's first time on a slaver and we both vow it'll be our last, if we lives through it."
"Yer both a pair o' cowardly scrubs, y'are, afraid o' yer own shadows," says Eben Carruthers, his voice full of scorn. "But the thing about weapons, well, we'll have to see about that."
The cat chooses this time to give out with a loud meow.
Damn!
"What you got under there, Jezebel?" asks Cookie. "A nice fat rat? Let's see..." He starts to bend down for a look. "Yowwwwwweeeee!"
There is a shriek from outside. 'Tis plain the lookout has awakened to find his special neckwear, and none too soon, neither. Cookie straightens back up and all four men pound out to see what the matter is.
I roll out from under the stove, grab a piece of johnnycake, and start to head back down to the bottom of the ship and safety. The traitorous Jezebel carefully arranges her paws beneath her and watches me go, without further comment.
Sally and Bea have waited up for me, and together we get the boards back up in no time at all.
"Here," I say, finding their hands and passing each of them a piece of the cake.
"What is it?"
"Johnnycake. Not enough to divide with the rest. Consider it a small reward for your constancy." "Ummmm."
Chapter 38
Lt. James Emerson Fletcher
The Pi
g and Whistle
State Street
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
June 17, 1806
Miss Jacky Faber
Somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean
My Dearest Jacky,
I take comfort in writing these words to you in the hope that you will someday read them and excuse my poor, stiff prose. I am a seaman and not a man of letters, as you well know.
Here are things as they now stand:
Higgins continues to be the rock upon which we place all our hopes. He is tireless in his investigations of your disappearance and has actually come up with even further proof that a kidnapping occurred, as opposed to a tragic accident. He called upon me one day not long past and bade me to accompany him again to view the evidence held at the courthouse. I shall put it in his words:
"You, see, Sir, most of these purses, which undeniably belong to some of the girls"—the sad, sodden purses and shawls and other personal items were lined up on a shelf in the basement of said courthouse—"have one thing in common. They are open, and they were open when they were found. I know, because I was here when they were brought in. Now, in the past, I have been in service to a number of families, and there is one thing I am sure of: When a woman or a girl finishes retrieving something from her purse, she snaps the clasp shut. Highborn or low, lady or servant, it does not matter. Almost all of these purses were open—as if rough sailors, ordered to strip them from the girls and throw them overboard as evidence of the young ladies' destruction, could not resist opening them to see if they contained anything of value."
As I have said, Higgins is invaluable. A keener mind I have never before encountered. It is very lucky that he is here in this place, for aside from his investigations and observations so far, he was instrumental in averting a true injustice. I know that it would distress you to know this, and perhaps it is fortunate that you do not—Mistress Pimm was brought up on charges.
She was taken before a Court of Inquiry concerning the loss of virtually her entire student body and placed in the Dock of the Court. Many of the parents of the lost girls are so distraught that they felt they must find someone to blame for the tragedy. It is to Mistress Pimm's credit that she stood there, black-clad and silent, her face composed and her back ramrod straight. She then told her story in a firm, unquavering voice, but it was not enough. The parents, led by those of one Elspeth Goodwin, demanded more, and John Higgins ascended to the Dock and gave it to them. He meticulously stated the case, fact by fact, supporting his certainty that you and your companions were kidnapped by dastardly slavers and were not dead. With Higgins's testimony, Mistress Pimm survived the ordeal, and the parents, I believe, were given some hope.
Higgins has observed me writing these words to you and has asked that I send you his best wishes and hopes that you are keeping yourself safe and not being overly impulsive. I told him I believed the last of his wishes to be a vain hope, and he was forced to concur.
Henry Hoffman is now based in New York. He has established lines of communication to all the mid-Atlantic ports and waits eagerly for news. It is my devout hope that his waiting is not in vain. General Howe continues to scour the southern ports and seas for word of his daughter and the others.
Randall Trevelyne comes often to The Pig to inquire after any news, and we have taken dinner together many times. It is easy to see why you were attracted to him, and believe me, Jacky, I am not stupid. I know you were drawn to him, so do not say nay—he is polished, well-mannered, has an excellent singing voice, and is self-assured in all social settings. Though he is rash and impulsive, he cuts a gallant figure—he is, as the Bard would have it, "the glass of fashion and the mold of form"—in short, everything I am not. He is quick to take offense and has drawn his sword on more than one occasion. But not against me—rest easy, Jacky, as we are friends. He talks of his impatience to get into battle, and I try to disabuse him of this notion, but he is obstinate. He cannot seem to get it out of his head that you, a mere female, have been in combat many times and that he has not. I point out to him that your being in grave danger in those situations was just an unfortunate string of events, but he feels that this in no way exempts him from the necessity of being tested in battle. It is equally unfortunate on a global scale that things are heating up between our two countries and that Randall and I, who now sit and eat and drink together, could yet end up on opposite sides of a great battle, each trying to kill the other. Why we, the British and the Americans, who share a common language and heritage and who are so much alike, must find reasons to fight each other is astounding to me. Stupid politics is all it is, and beyond my understanding. In any case, as regards Randall Trevelyne, if, indeed, you do make it back to us, I will let you choose and not hold you to your former promise.
Your Most Affectionate and etc....etc.,
Jaimy
Chapter 39
We are into the powder magazine. All the holes had been drilled, right next to each other on the lines of the traced square, and I took my shiv and cut down through the few splinters that were still holding the wooden square in place, and it fell forward into our hands. Carefully putting it aside, we now look in, but since I have forbidden candles near this spot, all we can make out in the gloom under the Stage are fat bags of powder crowded up next to the newly named Powder Hole. Some of them appear to have been punctured. To the side of the bags is darkness.
Hmmm, I say to myself, let's see what else is in there.
First things first, though. "Bea, get me a rag. That's one of mine hanging right there. Thanks."
Of course, there's rags and petticoats and drawers hanging all about down here under the Stage, drying from their last cleaning, but I can't take anyone else's stuff. I gotta say, though, as I sniff the rag that is handed to me, the laundry soap we got from the storeroom has gone a long way in helping us stay neat and tidy.
I rip my rag in little strips and use them to plug up the holes that our drill bit has made in several bags. I get the nearby girls to scoop up the powder that had spilled on our side and then we dump it back into the magazine, as we can't be caught with any of that stuff over here. Cups of salt water are brought up from the clean tub and the residue washed away and down through the slats. Good. All clean, and maybe the rats will like the flavor.
That done, I feel around the bags and find that there is a more open space to the left side. I reach my hand in and freeze. I have touched something smooth. It feels like a metal canister of some kind. Could it be a bomb? An explosive shell? I pick it up very, very carefully and bring it out into the dim light.
It's not metal at all. It is a bottle, and on it is a label. I read it and a grin spreads across my face. "Hey, Mam'selle," I say to Lissette, who is crouched nearby, at my left hand. "Do the words Côte du Rhône mean anything to you?"
She comes over on hands and knees to gaze in wonder at the wine bottle. "Ah, mon amie, I was born there," she says in wonder and joy.
We take two more bottles from the stash and place them in Lissette's lap for her to lovingly run her fingers over them—it's plain that the Captain chose to store his wine there in the most heavily locked space on the ship, where no one could get at it. Right...
We then close the safety boards over the Powder Hole and take down the boards from the Rat Hole. I'm about to go through, when Katy leans down and whispers, "See if'n there's any glue in there. If there is, get it and bring out five more of them battens." I nod, knowing Katy well enough not to question her. I go in with a candle and the wedge for the door. I stand up, stick the wedge under the door, and look around. First, I find what I came in for—the smallest auger, to use as a corkscrew—then I look about for glue. On a low shelf, there is a pot with a brush handle sticking out of a slot in its cover. I pick it up and sniff. Sure enough, it's rabbit's-skin glue—and fresh enough, from the smell. I grab five more battens and shove everything through, then take myself out, pull the string to retrieve the wedge, and put the boards back up.
As if on cue
from the stage of one of Mr. Fennel's and Mr. Bean's theatrical productions in Boston comes word from above...
"Bag down."
There are eight fat millers in this batch. We whisper the news of the upcoming feast from girl to girl, and thirty-two tin cups are brought down and placed in a row. I pull the first cork and pass it to Lissette. She sniffs it and her eyes roll back and she nods and sticks the red end of it in her mouth and sucks on it. Ummmm... Funny how that word is the same in both French and English—or any language, for that matter. I've even heard dogs use it to express joy and contentment.
I pour a bit into each cup till the bottle is empty and then do the next bottle—it's a Burgundy, but I don't think the girls will mind the blend. Finally the last, another Côte du Rhône, and each girl has almost three ounces in her cup.
There is yet another treat: I had gone out last night for just a short run across to the other storeroom in the lower passageway, the one that held the ship's basic foodstuffs. I felt around in the darkness and found what I suspected was a tin of soda crackers and brought it back with me. I was right in my suspicion. We'll take some of these with us in the boat, if we can, so there will be something in the way of food—I hadn't yet figured out a way to carry water, though, and that had worried me, but not anymore.
I retrieve the tin from the hidey-hole and count out two crackers for each girl and place them beside each cup. There are six girls on watch—one at the gate, one at the edge of the Stage, and four lookouts on the Balcony. Their shares are put aside till they are relieved.
I replace the tin in the hiding spot and put the empty bottles there as well. Dolley has my shiv and has cut up the millers into small parts. Many of the girls now partake of the nearly daily feast.
"All right, now," I say, then hands reach out and soon nothing is heard except gasps of ecstasy over the fine wine and the common crackers and the crispy, crackly miller meat.