"...as well as your pennywhistle. I don't think it wise to bring out anything more, just yet."
"Yes, Higgins, you are absolutely right." I sniffle, then subside. "Now, I have assembled a group of reasonably good girls ... We are called the Newgaters—"
"Yes, I know how factions are forming in this ship ... the other Crews and all. I rather assumed that you would be quite busy in your usual ways."
"Good, Higgins, nobody was ever sharper than thee," I say as I take the package from him. "Now, my Crew would like to have the laundry rights."
"Indeed, Miss. I think that can be arranged."
"And I want exclusive rights. 'Course we'll have to do the sailors' clothes, but I don't want anyone from the other Crews barging into the laundry thinking she's gonna dunk her dirty undies into our hot, soapy water for nothing. Nay, ladies, it'll be thruppence a bag, or live in filth."
In outfitting the Lorelei Lee back in Boston, I paid special attention to the laundry, knowing that there would be a lot of it on a passenger ship, and so had located it in a spacious room next to the galley. That way the water could be heated on the galley stoves in between the cooking and serving of food and, after being used, could then be tossed out the porthole, that deck being above the waterline. I had also purchased two hundred and fifty net bags—I'd not forgotten my time as chambermaid at the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls.
"Very well, Miss, I shall facilitate that."
"You are sure you can?"
"Purser Samsock has indicated to me that he would be delighted if I would handle all the tedious everyday concerns, leaving the high-minded and complex Keeping of the Ledgers to him."
"Is he corrupt?"
"I believe that every officer on this ship is in some way corrupt," replies Higgins, with a sniff. "But not in an odious way. The Purser does enjoy his cup, but he seems a pleasant sort, content with his rum, his pipe, and his columns of figures."
I think on this and then whimper, "Can you do it this afternoon, please, Higgins? I am so filthy."
"Yes, Miss. Right after the noon meal."
"Higgins, you are so good to me," I say, and risk a quick kiss on his cheek. "Till later."
***
I go back down to my Crew to give 'em the good news. "Yes, ladies, this afternoon we shall wash both our clothing and ourselves! Hurrah! And now I shall go scout out our place of business to make sure it is set up proper!"
I creep down to the galley and peek in, knowin' full well what I will find, and—yep, there they are, all three of 'em ... I figured they would be...
Head up, I stride into the kitchen, and seein' a pot of coffee on the stove and a handy cup hanging on a hook, I take it down and pour myself a cup.
"Here, here! Girl, you can't..." The cook's voice trails off upon recognizing me. And then..."Oh, my God, it's—"
"Hello, Cookie," I chirp, takin' a big sip of the strong brew. "And Mick and Keefe, too. My, my, it's old home week, ain't it, lads?"
The three stand there, regarding me with open mouths, which, in the case of Mick and Keefe, ain't exactly a pretty sight.
"Wh-why, it's ... Jacky," says Cookie, the first to re-cover, the ladle in his hand motionless above a cauldron, one of four that sits on the stovetop, bubblin' and smellin' real good.
"Right, Cookie, your old mate from back on the Bloodhound. Ain't life funny sometimes?"
They look at each other fearfully, and well they should. If I informed on 'em, if I told the Captain that these three were involved in the kidnapping of the girls of the very high-toned Lawson Peabody School back in Boston, last year—and one of those girls being the granddaughter of former U.S. President John Adams—they would surely be confined and later hanged for it. That incident has gained wide notoriety, especially since Amy Trevelyne's book on the subject has been circulating freely throughout the English-speaking world.
I let them stew in their guilty juices for a bit, whilst I grab a hot biscuit from a tray and dip it into the burgoo pot, then pop it into my mouth. Ummmm...
After I have finished it off with much vigorous chewing and smacking of lips, I say to them, "Don't worry, mates. I ain't gonna peach on ye. You was pretty good t' me back on the Bloodhound, and I ain't one to forget past favors. Plus, I ain't the peachin' kind, just don't like it, somehow, bein' a tell-a-tale ... andw hat'st his?"
I feel something furry rub against my ankle.
"And speakin' o' peachin'...if it ain't our Jezebel herself!" I sit down on the stool and lift the cat onto my lap to stroke her back. "My! Ain't we lookin' fit and fine, Miss!" Then I ask her reprovingly, "Remember that night on the slaver, when I was hid under the stove, dressed in my black burglar's gear, and these three blokes was tromping about, and you come sniffin' at me? Yes, and you could have ruined everything, 'cept that the Black Ghost intervened just as Cookie was bendin' down to see what you was sniffin' at, and these three fools went howlin' out into the night." I rub her ears and she purrs.
"But you knew, didn't you? You knew it was me who was the Black Ghost all along, and you weren't afraid of me at all. Not like these other silly coves."
The silly coves continue to eye me, and I go on. "Nay, lads, I shan't peach on thee, but in return, you must keep my identity secret, too. I've gone right famous in certain ways, and I don't think it would be good for me to have it known yet just who I am."
Cookie, who always has been the bravest of the three, turns back to his cauldrons and chuckles. "So, Jacky, what's on now?"
"I got me a life sentence to New South Wales, mates, and I ain't at all happy about it. Got the laundry concession here, though, and you'll be warmin' up pots of water this afternoon so's me and me girls can get at it."
Mick and Keefe nod. "Aye," says Keefe. "That's why we're here. Ready to fill up the tubs. That Higgins set us on it."
Keefe, more relaxed now, laughs, then says, "Looks like we're still haulin' water for Jacky Faber."
And it looks like you two are still waisters, seamen rated ordinary rather than able.
"You could do worse, mates. Ain't I took care o' you in the past? You ain't dead, that's somethin'. "
Keefe strokes his bristly chin. His long face is deeply tanned and furrowed by long years in the sun, lashed by briny spray. "It was a close thing, Jacky, in that lifeboat when you cast us adrift."
"So, what happened?"
"Well, we rigged up a sail and a rudder, and in a few weeks, we was half dead. And when all seemed lost, we was picked up by a passin' merchant—told him we was the survivors of a wrecked whaler."
"So all of you made it?"
Each face looks at the floor.
"How 'bout Sammy Nettles?" I ask, thinkin' I know the answer.
The three of them exchange covert glances, and I know.
"Don't worry about it, lads. After all, it's tradition"
I ain't a bloody-minded sort, but still, the idea of Sammy Nettles being slowly digested does not overly distress me.
"Well, I'm glad you survived, Jezebel," I say, continuing to stroke the purring feline. "But I ain't surprised. Cats got this way of disappearin' every time you might want to snatch 'em up—like they got this sixth sense, or somethin'. "
"Aye, my Jezebel took one look at the coves in that boat, sized up the situation, and climbed to the top o' the mast and stayed there till we was rescued. She knowed, she did," says Cookie, peering into the pot. "Well, 'tis time to feed the mob."
I rise, letting Jezebel slink back down to the deck.
"All right, lads, till later. Good seein' you again. We'll talk over old times later, the good old days, like."
Mick, he of the pug nose, wide mouth, and thick unruly brown hair, grins and says, "If we fills up the tubs for ye, will you do yer little dance for us again?"
He, of course, has not forgotten the striptease I did for the three of them, me wigglin' down there in the bottom of the hold of the Bloodhound, sheddin' clothes in exchange for clean saltwater so's we poor girls could wash ourselves and our t
hings.
I manage a slight blush and laugh. "Nay, Mick, but it's sweet of you to ask for an encore." I reach out and rub his head. "Don't worry, ducks, there's plenty o' quim aboard this barky, and I'm sure you will all get your share. If not, come see me, and I'll fix it."
I go to the door and say, "The tubs—make 'em nice and hot, now, lads, for when I come back."
Giving them a little finger wave, I'm out the door and back to my Crew.
A bath, dear Lord, a bath, and soon ... Oh, yes!
Chapter 18
James Fletcher, Convict
Onboard a Rotting Hulk
Thames River, London
Jacky Faber
Somewhere in this World
Or the Next
Dear Jacky,
Once again we communicate across the Void.
I do not know what has happened to you—were you imprisoned, tortured, or even hanged? I fear the latter, but I do not know, nor am I likely to find out. Though I am in deep despair, there is one thing that keeps me from willing myself to die—and that is a burning desire to someday track down Henry Flashby and Bliffil, too, and kill them, torturously slowly ... very, very slowly. The thought sputters like a flame and I nurture it, fanning the flames of hatred and the desire for Revenge. Aye, I shall keep myself alive until I have exacted complete Vengeance on those lying bastards!
After I'm brought out of that so-called court, my hands shackled behind me, my jacket stripped of all evidence of my rank, I am shoved into a cart and taken down to the river. I am wrong in supposing that I will be taken directly to the convict ship that'll bear me away, for I am thrown instead into one of the dank, dark prison Hulks that lie in the mud next to the shore of the Thames.
My restraints are taken off, only to be snapped on again with my hands in front—I suppose so I can feed myself whatever swill they plan to give me, and to relieve myself without help, and such. A similar set of shackles are fastened around my ankles and that is connected by a chain to an eyebolt under the bench that goes around the interior of the foul cell. I suspect the rough bench will be my bed until I am taken from here—and that could be days, months, yes, even years—but I shall endure.
There are two jailers here to manage this cell, which shouldn't take much, since instead of the usual thirty or so, there's only me in here. One of the sorry pair is called Toad and the other Frog.
When being escorted to the privy, I ask the Toad, "Why am I the only one here? Am I that important a prisoner?"
"Nah, you ain't worth shit," says he, giving me a poke with his club to hurry me along the dim passageway. "You're just a bleedin' convict, like any other. Move along." The Frog leads the way.
Speaking of bleeding, both of these poor excuses for men appear to have been soundly beaten recently. There are many bruises about their faces, their lips are split and swollen, and bandages cover some wounds on their heads.
"We 'ad two or three hundred women convicts in 'ere till yesterday, when they took 'em all off," says the Frog. "Too bad. Sure was a lot more fun than the likes o' you." Both of them leer and chuckle at that. "We're takin' on a bunch o' men today, mostly Micks, I hears."
"Where did they take them? The women, I mean."
"Dunno. Most for the transportation, I reckon. Some for the hanging."
My blood freezes in my veins. "Oh?" I manage to say. "Do you know any of their names?"
The Toad looks slyly at the Frog. "We know lots o' names. Who you got in mind?"
I take a deep breath. "Jacky Faber, sometimes known as Mary."
Another look twixt the two.
"Jacky Faber? Oh, yes, that one—real small, right? Right pretty in a scrawny sort o' way? Well, you'll be glad to know they hanged her ass at Newgate on Monday last."
A coldness comes over me. Damn them! Damn them all to hell!
"Fine show it was, too. I was there, front row. She wore a nice little black dress that come up over her legs when they dropped 'er. A good show all around. Cost me two pounds five, but it was worth it, watchin' 'er kick, seein' as how I knows she was the cause o' gettin' poor Toad and me t' get all beat up after we was so good as to set up a meetin' twixt 'er and 'er fancy man...'Iggins 'is name was, warn't it, Toad?"
" 'Twas, Froggie, and 'twarn't fair. All I said was that I was gonna take 'er t' me bed soon, and the next thing we knows is some brutes is beatin' us half to death in a dark alley, and... urk!"
In a blind rage I have slipped my wrist manacles over Toad's head, and I bring the six-inch length of chain that joins the two wrist cuffs hard against his throat and pull back with all my strength.
"Hey, stop that!" shouts the Frog, flailing at me with his club, but I keep the struggling Toad between me and him in the narrow passageway, and the Frog's club does not have much effect on me.
"If they did hang her, then I shall kill you right now. And they will hang me for that, and I will be glad!" I tighten the grip, and the Toad gurgles as he tries unsuccessfully to get his fingers under the terrible chain that is choking out his miserable life. "A few more seconds and you'll be dead!"
The Toad is beginning to sag in my grip, which I make even tighter.
Die, you miserable scum!
The Frog gives up trying to hit me and turns to pleading. "We was only foolin'! All them females was sent for Transportation to Australia! All of 'em! Let 'im go, please! He ain't much, but 'e's me brother! Please, I beg you, Sir!"
I relax my grip, and the Toad slips to the floor, gasping. I continue on my journey to the head, knowing full well that they will beat me senseless when they have recovered. But I do not care, Jacky, for now I know where you are and where you are going...
And it is possible that the Admiralty has actually done me a favor in sending me to the same place.
It eases my mind a bit,
Jaimy
Chapter 19
"Come on, my ladies," I say. "It's right down here ... Duck your heads now ... Here we are."
Where we are is in the laundry, me and my Crew. There are two steaming tubs waiting for us, and I am hardly through the door when I start stripping off what's left of my poor once-whited ress.
This afternoon, after the noon meal had been served and eaten and the galley cleaned up, our laundry tubs were filled with hot water—fresh water, too, as we've got lots of it onboard, and we can refill our casks on Gibraltar before we head down the West African coast. When we run low later, the water surely will be salt.
"There, girls, are the net bags to hold your clothing, and here are the tags to label your stuff so's you can get it back. If we're gonna be washin clothes for three hundred people, we've got to have a system, like. Here, I've got a pencil—let's get started. Can you read? Don't worry, there's no shame in it. No? Then, here ... See, Molly, I'll draw a bunny next to your name on your tag so's you can see that it's your bundle. All right. Ann? Ah, good. Then there it is, big and bold Ann Marsh'. Now, Esther..."
And so on and so on. For those who can recognize their names, I print them on their tags. For those who can't, I draw some sort of symbol on theirs—a star, a crescent moon, a circle within a box, and so on. This will become much more complicated when we start doing washing for all the convict Crews, but I'll work it out.
Enough of that, I say to myself as that hot tub sings a siren song to me.
I doff my dress and toss it into my net bag and then drop down the drawers and shove them in, too. Then the entire bag labeled "J. M. Faber" sinks into the other tub. I am surprised when it does not let out a beastly animal moan as the filthy thing sinks.
Then I climb gratefully into the tub.
Ahhhhhhhhh...
The wonderful wet warmth envelops me, covering me up to my neck, and I luxuriantly lean my head back on the edge of the tub. If you're gonna take me, Lord, take me now, please, for I am in a state of supreme bliss...
After reveling in this fashion for a moment or two, I languidly take the bar of soap that someone—Higgins, I'm sure—has placed convenient to the w
ash basin, and run it through my hair to lather it up. Having done that, I recover enough of my sense of duty to issue some orders to those of my wondering Crew who stand about me.
"All right, all of you. Reach up under your skirts and drop your knickers. Put them in your net bag. If you've got petticoats and other linen, get 'em off and in the bag. Since you do not have a change of clothes, you'll have to wear your outer dress until your linen is dry, and then we'll reverse the process. Got it?"
I dip my head under the water and run my fingers through my hair to rinse it, and, Oh, how I wish I had Higgins's gentle but strong fingers to do it for me with me immersed in my own little tub. Back in Boston I had metal-workers fashion for me a small but very elegant bathtub—yellow copper with pink brass trim and cunning little feet, and just my size. It's kept in a storeroom close to my cabin, or what used to be my cabin.
Oh well, enjoy what you've got, girl, and don't moan over what you haven't.
When I resurface, I see that my girls are getting into the spirit of the thing. There is even some laughter, as bags are tossed into the other tub, and...
...and then someone is rattling at the door latch, trying to open it.
I had, of course, put my wedges under the door when we entered, to preserve our privacy and to prevent unwanted entry. I mean, Mick and Keefe are in the next space, and I had just paraded twelve females in various states of slovenly loveliness before them, so we must be careful. The door swings inward and so the wedges will do their job. I learned that lesson long ago—it would take a battering ram to open up that door.
There is a loud rapping and a man's voice says, "Open this door!"
"Go away!" I shout back. "There are ladies here! If it's you, Mick, you'd better behave!"
"This is Mr. Ruger, the First Mate. Open this goddamned door! Now! Or I'll have you whipped!" There are some gasps of alarm from my Crew standing fearfully around me.
I wiggle myself around in the tub so as to face the door, cross my arms over my chest, and nod to Mary Wade. "Let him in."
The Wake of the Lorelei Lee: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, On Her Way to Botany Bay Page 11