"Indian way much neater. Build fire, then poof."
"I know, Ravi, but that is not our way," I continue. "And so it was done—Nelson's body was stripped down and placed in the cask, and the barrel was filled to the top with the best rum the ship had onboard, and HMS Victory headed back to England, bearing its sad burden."
"And so that is end of story, Missy?" asks Ravi. I can tell he is not totally satisfied with my explanation.
"Well, not quite, Ravi," I say. "There was one problem with the cask into which Nelson was put. There was a small spigot at the bottom ..."
Snorts of suppressed laughter all around.
"So?" asks Ravi, mystified.
"So, my beautiful little boy." I chortle, gathering up the lad and hugging him to me. "When the ship got to England and the funeral was prepared and the cask was opened"—a bit of a pause here—"and when the cask was opened ... the body of Lord Nelson was still in there"—another pause—"but the rum was not!"
Roars of laughter fill the cabin. Well told, Jacky!
"But what happened to it?" asks my innocent little lad.
"Uh ... the Victory's sailors had snuck down in the dark of night and opened the spigot to pour themselves cups of the rum, and they drank it till it was all gone."
Ravi pulls away from me, aghast. "But that is disgusting!"
I pull him back to me, shaking with laughter. "If you think that is disgusting, Ravi, then you do not know British sailors!"
More gales of raucous laughter.
"And so you see, little one, a cup of Nelson's blood is another way of saying 'a cup of rum.' And sometimes having a bit of a drink is called 'tapping the Admiral'! Now go do your job and fill more cups with Nelson's blood and pass them around!"
Ravi, thoroughly revolted, I am sure, to the depths of his Hindu soul, scurries off to do his duty. I turn back to the ... situation ... at hand. We are essentially becalmed and so I have no real reason to deny Jaimy my bed this evening, and oh, I do so want it to be so ... But what of Jared? What of discipline?
Complications, complications...
While I'm dwelling on how I'm going to deal with this, I notice that Lee Chi, who is usually a cheerful sort of Chinese eunuch, is uncharacteristically nervous. He has been serving the food under Higgins's watchful eye, but he has also gone to the door several times to peer out, coming back each time looking more worried. He was given to me by the Chinese pirate Cheng Shih, who had, well ... ahem ... taken a bit of a shine to me when I was her prisoner on our way down to Botany Bay. Quite a bit of a shine, I recall with a slight blush coming to my cheeks.
It sure is hot in here, I'm thinking as I stick my finger in my collar and pull it away from my neck. I rather regret being dressed in my naval finery—heavy jacket, lacy shirt, tight britches, and black boots. But I do like to show off, especially with Jaimy by my side, and it's my duty as Grand Mistress of the Proceedings to look good and to sparkle and to be gay and so lend joy to all at my table.
I notice Lee Chi whispering something to Ravi, who has just come back into the cabin, and I break off telling a humorous story and motion for the lad to bring his tray to my side.
"What's up, Ravi?" I say, cutting my eyes to the Chinaman, who stands nervously in a corner. "What's wrong with Mr. Lee?"
"Sahib Lee teach me some of his words ..."
"Yes, dear, go on," I say.
"He say tai means 'big' ..."
I nod at that, anxious to get back into the high hilarity of the evening, however hot it is growing in here.
"...and phoon means 'wind.'"
"So?"
I look up at Lee Chi and he points outside and says one word.
"Typhoon."
Uh-oh...
Chapter 2
The party is over.
"Get back to your ships!" I shout, yanking off my uniform and toeing off my boots. "There is a mighty storm to the west that's headed for us! Hurry!"
But I need not have said anything, for as soon as Joseph Jared sees that low line of pitch-black clouds forming up on the horizon, his leg is over the rail of the Lee and he is back in his launch, heading toward the Dart.
He is followed closely by Jaimy Fletcher, but not before I grab him, as I'm pulling off my dress trousers, and plant a good one on his mouth.
"Please be careful, Jaimy," I breathe in his ear. "Get down all the canvas you can and quickly! I have heard that tropical typhoons are just as bad as our hurricanes, maybe even worse, and—"
"I know what to do, dearest," he says, wrapping his arms about me and holding me to him. "I know what to do about my ship, but I do not know what to do about you."
"One more kiss, Jaimy, oh please..."
"Oh, God, how I wanted to—"
"I know, Jaimy, me, too! But now you must go."
I realize that I do not present an elegant picture, my pants now being around my ankles, yet oh, how I wish this moment could last!
But, alas, it cannot. Duty calls. He bows and says, "And you must tend to your own ship, I know that. Farewell, Jacky, we will come together again when this is over."
"God speed thee, love, and keep thee safe."
"One more..."
Oh, yes!
Then he is gone.
Deep breath, girl, and then collect yourself. All right ... Done.
"Ravi! My Powder Monkey gear! Now!"
It is the simple light canvas pants and shirt with which I had outfitted my squad of convict girls on the Lee on those occasions when the ship ran into trouble and we needed powder brought up fast to the guns. One can move about real easy in that sort of gear, and that's what I need right now if I am to face this. So clad, with my shiv in its sheath up my sleeve, I run hatless and barefoot back up on deck.
"Mr. Lightner!" I shout to my Sailing Master. "Send all hands aloft to shorten sail!" And the sound of running feet pounds all around me.
Enoch has his drum and he pounds it to summon any laggards below. "All hands aloft to shorten sail!" he roars. "Take in all mains, topsails, and royals! Leave the fore jib and reef the spanker. Secure all deck gear!"
"Aye. That should give us bare steerageway, enough to keep her head into the weather," I say, coming up next to him. "We'll see how she holds. Well done, Enoch."
He nods, his hand on the forestay. He may be blind, but he can sense the oncoming weather and he can feel the sinews of the Lorelei Lee in the quivering of her lines.
We are joined by my First Mate, Mr. Seabrook, and my Second, Mr. Gibson, both very competent officers and both East India merchantmen. They were onboard when the Lee embarked from London as a convict ship, and I have kept them on to continue the running of it now. Mr. Hinckley, formerly Fourth Mate of the prison ship, elected to stay in Botany Bay to await another berth on a proper ship. He felt his naval career might be hampered by his having served on my Lorelei Lee, which often has cracked out the piratical skull and crossbones flag. Perhaps he is wise. We shall see.
We all watch the approaching storm with varying degrees of dread.
"I went through a typhoon back in ninety-nine," says Mr. Seabrook ominously. "When I was Fourth Mate on the Carthage, coming back from Singapore."
We all look to him to continue.
"Myself and three Filipina women were the only survivors," he says.
"Mr. Gibson, will you see that all the hatches are battened down securely?"
"Aye, Captain," says Mr. Gibson, hurrying off to his duty.
I look up at our now mostly bare poles. Only a few scraps of canvas are up forward, and the spanker over our heads back here on the quarterdeck is well reefed up. Those few sails, however, are not full, nor do they even flutter; we are dead calmed, and we wait in apprehensive silence for the storm to hit.
O Neptune, what have you in store for us poor souls?
"Try to hold her on course 020 degrees," I say to the helmsman, a man I know to be very good at his job.
"Aye, Captain," he says. "Soon as I get some wind."
Oh, you'll get wi
nd, mate, just you wait.
We all wait ... and wait...
I lift my long glass and note that the Cerberus and the Dart have each taken similar precautions in shortening sail and making ready for the blow. Both Jaimy and Jared are on their respective quarterdecks, and I know that they, too, wait.
The storm is high overhead now, with black clouds writhing and twisting about like the arms of demons from hell. All nonessential personnel have been ordered below, and still the watch above waits.
And then it comes. It starts with a quick puff of hot, wet air—enough to fill out our meager sails and give the helm some steerageway. The wind turns into a high unearthly whine, and as the storm slams into us for real, the Lorelei Lee heels hard over on her port side.
"I can't hold her, Sir!" screams the helmsman, clinging to his wheel.
"Bo'sun!" I yell at Tim Connell. "Two men to the helm!"
The wind has gone from dead stillness to over a hundred knots in a matter of seconds, clawing at every line, at every scrap of canvas, at every man on deck. Everything not securely tied down disappears instantly into the blackness. Torrents of rain come slashing at us, stinging and blinding us as we hang on for dear life. From out of the belly of the storm, enormous waves have suddenly built into towering mountains of black water. The Lee plunges and twists like a wild thing, but the three strong men now on the wheel manage to keep it from spinning ... but not for long.
"The spanker!" shouts Enoch Lightner over the howl of the wind. "It's too much! We've got to get it down!"
"Drop the spanker, Bo'sun!" I order, clinging to the mizzenmast ratlines and pointing up to the sail overhead. "Get your top men up there! Get it down!"
But it is too late.
I was sure that the wind couldn't get any worse, but I was wrong. With the screech of a demented banshee, the storm doubles its fury and heels us over even further and then... Horror!
Close to starboard looms a wave that dwarfs all the others. It is at least fifty feet from deep bottom to wind-torn top. It rolls inexorably on and the Lee slides helplessly into the trough, yawing suddenly to her right, and then, as the body of the wave lifts us and passes on, way, way over to her other side. There she wallows, dangerously close to capsize and destruction.
The spanker hits the water and the belly of the sail fills with water, and as the Lee slowly rights herself, the added weight of the water is too much for the mizzenmast. With a sickening, splintering crrraaack, the mast splits and comes crashing down into the water on the port side.
"I've lost steerage!" cries the helmsman.
"It'll drag us down!" I screech. "Axes! Cut it away!"
The mizzen ratlines to which I had been clinging now lay flat across the deck, along with all the rest of the lines that had held up the now fallen aftermast.
Hand over hand I manage to get to the rack of axes fixed to the side of the main hatch and pull one out. Other hands are at my side doing the same thing, and within moments, we are hacking away at the tangled mess.
No thinking, just cut, girl. Just swing and cut and swing and cut, else we are lost.
Neptune grants us a slight reprieve from the full intensity of the storm. Must be getting close to the eye, I'm thinkin', recalling hurricanes I had gone through in the Caribbean. Maybe we'll be all right, maybe...
Although my arm is aching, I swing my ax at one more line and that proves to be the last one holding the lost mast. The rigging, dragged by the drowned sail, begins to slide across the deck. When it falls into the sea, we will be able to regain some sort of steerage and so save ourselves. At least for the moment.
I put my fist into the small of my aching back and straighten up, then rub the rainwater from my eyes and gratefully watch the rigging go snaking over the side. Now, we'll—
At that moment, the galley hatchway opens and I see Ravi coming out, bearing cups of steaming coffee meant, no doubt, for me and the quarterdeck watch.
"No, Ravi!" I scream, but it is too late. Already he is on top of the squirming mass of lines, picking his way toward me. He slips and falls, his burden of coffee spilling out of the cups he still clutches in his hands.
Of course he cannot hear me above the roar of the wind, so I run to him and grab him by the scruff of his neck. "Get back below, you idiot!" and I thrust him toward the hatch.
Then I turn and begin picking my own way back to the quarterdeck. Stupid kid, I'm gonna make his brown bottom turn red, I will, I'll...
But I ain't gonna do that at all.
A large turnbuckle sliding off with the rest of the wreckage catches me at my ankle and I fall forward. Trying desperately to get up and flee to safety, my foot slips into a loop of line, which tightens around my leg, and I am pulled relentlessly to the edge. I try to untangle my leg but, I can't, I can't. It's just too tight, and there's the rail shattered by the fall of the mast, and I see Seabrook and Gibson rushing toward me but it's no good. I know it's no good. Oh God, I'm gonna go over ... I'm gonna die.
And then arms are about me. But they are not the strong arms of any of my bully boys, no. They are the thin arms of tiny Ravi, who wails, "Memsahib! Memsahib!" as we are both dragged off the deck of the Lorelei Lee and plunged under the warm and, to us, suddenly very quiet waters of the South China Sea.
Chapter 3
James Emerson Fletcher
Captain, Cerberus
Off the Coast of Sumatra
In Company with Lorelei Lee
and HMS Dart
December 16, 1807
Jacky Faber
Lost to this World
Dear Jacky,
We held the funeral for you today. I assure you it was a most solemn, tearful crowd that stood at the rail of the Lorelei Lee as the words were said, commending your body to the sea and all that. Of course, your poor body was already drowned in the sea and there was no way to retrieve it—neither it nor the wonderful spirit that once dwelt therein—but Higgins had contrived a wreath of twined ropes, some strands white, some light brown, representing the tendrils of your hair, which seemed to suit the sad occasion.
We did look for you, Jacky, yes, for days on end we did, but could find no trace, and, eventually, we had to give up the search. Perhaps some landsman found your poor body and performed the terms of the Sailor's Contract—trading the golden ring in your ear for a proper burial on land. I do hope so, small comfort though it might bring to me in my grief and sorrow.
I do not have much to live for, Jacky, now that you are gone, but I know that I must keep on in this life—at least for a while. I will settle with Flashby and Bliffil, those two blackguards who sent you on this journey and whom I hold completely and personally responsible for your death. Yes, my lust for revenge shall burn hot in my now cold heart and keep me alive till the day of reckoning.
The wind is fair, and I have responsibilities to both my people and yours, so I cannot let myself slip into the beckoning depths of fatal melancholy into which I could easily slide, nor give ear to the sad songs of sirens into whose arms I could easily find solace.
I hope having your little fellow at your side as you went down lent you both some comfort. Yes, I have heard that we lost you in your vain attempt to save the boy. And yes, it was both reckless and noble of you to do so, but I do not in any way consider it a fair trade. I am sorry you lost your little lad, as I know you had great affection for him. I only wish now that some of that love could have been showered upon our own sons and daughters.
Enoch Lightner sang "O God, Our Help in Ages Past," and you may rest assured there was not a dry eye on any of the ships gathered in a rough circle for the sad event.
Were you watching and perhaps singing gleefully along? I certainly hope so, but my faith in anything has become so strained. Perhaps you live on in another world ... or perhaps the spark that was you was simply extinguished and that's all there is to it ... I do not know, and might not ever know. None of us will ... at least for now.
Your dear friend Mairead was, of course, devastated,
as we all were, but she is bearing up—after all, she has responsibilities, too, being with child once again. Higgins, as well, soldiers on.
We will go to Bombay to resupply and refit the Lorelei Lee—it is the only British-controlled port in this area that can replace the mizzenmast of the Lee and effect the other repairs needed by our fleet. None came through unscathed by that terrible storm.
Rest in peace, Jacky. You will live forever in my heart, and in every corner of my mind,
Jaimy
Chapter 4
The sun is hot on my back as I awaken, my senses slowly returning to me. Something is wrong, and I realize that my face is pressed into ... what? Sand? Yes ... I lie on a beach, with my mouth full of grit. I open my eyes, blink several times, and then, groaning, force myself to my hands and knees. As I am half-buried in the sand, it comes to me that the tide must have ebbed and then come back in during the time I have lain here. Although I am groggy from the heat of the sun, and from my exertions the previous day and night, I am dimly able to sense that a certain East Indian boy kneels by my side. A certain very foolish East Indian boy...
"Is Memsahib all right?" he asks, fearful.
I gag and spit, trying, unsuccessfully, to clear my mouth of the grit.
"No?" he persists.
The Mark of the Golden Dragon Page 2