Under the Jolly Roger

by L. A. Meyer

  "Jared! The forestaysail sheet is chafing at the clew!" I shout over the howling of the gale as I mount the ratlines. "We've got to double up that line in case it fails!"

  And with that I'm on the ratlines heading up the foremast to the foot of the forestaysail. I think I hear Jared shout something, but I can't hear what it is. When I reach the sail, I put my hand on the clew where the line is attached and sure enough I can see it is almost worn through where it has rubbed against a bare yard. The line has three thick strands in it and two are already gone. The canvas chafing gear that was supposed to protect the line had slipped and come loose. I think of Muck and his slackers who are supposed to take care of chafing gear. Damn! I've got to hurry! If that last strand parts, the sail will let go and we will be lost! We'll fall off the wind and be caught broadside to the waves and swamped! Hurry!

  The sail is quivering like a live thing under my hand, but I manage to get the whipped end of my rope through the eye of the clew and throw several half hitches on it and when I get it done I find Jared by my side and I think he's snarling at me for being up here.

  "I got it!" I shout in his ear. "Get this line down to the men on deck and have them haul it in and secure it!" He takes it and flings the coil below. In a moment I let my breath out in relief at seeing the line jerk, then grow straight and hard as it takes the strain of the sail.

  "I'm going up to check the head halyard to see if that's chafing as well!" I yell to Jared.

  "Wait, you fool! You—," I hear Jared say, but I'm already climbing farther up the mast, up to where the forestaysail halyard at the head of the sail secures it to the fore-topmast.

  I get there, check it out, and it seems all right—under a lot of strain but holding, with no signs of wear. The mast is whipping great arcs in the sky with me clinging to it—I must be traveling twenty to thirty feet through the air on each swing.

  I hang on and look out into the gale at the mighty waves heaving and roiling and coming at us is ... Oh, my God ... I am not quite believing what I am seeing off the port bow. There are waves, yes, and they are many and huge but there, there about fifty yards out, is a monster comber, a wave twice, three times bigger than any of the others. Oh, Lord ...

  "Green water comin' over the bow!" I shriek. "Look out! Clear the fo'c'sle!"

  All below dive for the hatch or else grab onto tackle and wedge themselves in and try to tie themselves down with whatever they can find, for what they know is coming.

  I hang on without a shred of hope. I have no line with which to tie myself down, I have nothing to shield me from the inevitable. In desperation I wrap both arms and legs around the mast and helplessly watch the approach of the rogue wave. Then the ship dips down, way down, impossibly down into the trough of the wave and the Wolverine's bow is swallowed up. The whole front end of the ship disappears under water that is not white foam but pure green water. Then that green wall comes rushing up at me and hits me hard, so hard, and I ain't in no wave, I'm in the body of the sea itself, and I redouble my grip of both arms and legs but I know it ain't gonna do any good as the wave slams up into my nose and claws at me and proceeds to rip me off the mast to take me into its belly for good and ever.

  I commend my body to the sea and my soul to God is what I think is gonna be my last thought, as my hooked fingers are pulled off the mast and my legs let go but then, oh then, an arm of iron goes around my chest and tightens and I am held fast as the wave tears through us and past.

  The first thing I see as the water leaves my face is the furious eyes of Joseph Jared a few scant inches in front of my nose.

  "You are a stupid girl, no matter what else you believe yourself to be!" he shouts over the roar of the retreating wave. He takes his arm from around my chest and puts his free hand around my neck and brings us face-to-face, nose to nose. "Now get down below and let us do our damned job!"

  I look at him through the strands of my hair and nod weakly. He lets me go and I slink back down to the deck, considerably chastened. I could write him up for that. Touching me like that, I mean.

  But I won't.

  "You are useless to me in that condition," snarls Mr. Pinkham upon seeing me stagger back on the quarterdeck, knees shaking, teeth chattering. "Go below and go to bed. You may consider yourself on report for leaving the quarterdeck without permission. We will deal with that in the morning. Mr. Raeburne may assume the Midwatch, but I do not want the squeakers up during this as I do not want to have to watch out for them. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Sir." And bless you, Sir ...

  ***

  I stumble down to the berth and stand dripping, my body shaking with cold and I say, "Give me something hot to drink," and a cup of something is put in my hand and I think it's tea with maybe a dollop of rum in it and I'm sorry, Millie, but I gulp it down anyway and there's some hot stew and biscuit and I get that down, too. I look at them standing about staring at me as the Wolverine pitches back and forth. The overhead hatch has already been secured. It is very dark in the berth.

  "Robin, Mr. Pinkham says you may assume the Midwatch, but you younger ones are to stay below tonight..."

  To their credit, both Tom and Ned protest, but I know their hearts are not in it. Georgie doesn't say anything. He just crouches, curled up in the corner, white with fear as the Wolverine pitches and yaws and creaks and groans and slams back and forth as it is flung about by the storm. The lantern is hung above and it swings, casting crazy patterns on the faces below it. I don't blame Georgie—what sane person could think that such a fragile thing as the Wolverine, with its hundred or so scared souls, could possibly survive something like this?

  "It is almost time for the Mid, anyway," says Robin, putting on his oilskins. "I'm sorry. I should have offered these to you before you went on watch. I forgot that you had none."

  "You are good, Robin, and think nothing of it. I have found that my pride needed a good soaking down anyway, for all of that."

  I get up and stand dripping before him, and I reach out and take his hand and hold it in mine. "Take care out there, Robin Raeburne. It is a hellish night."

  He sucks in his breath. Abruptly, he takes my hand and raises it to his lips. He looks at me over our clasped hands but says nothing. He turns on his heel and leaves, closing the hatch behind him.

  "Go to bed, boys, and be thankful for Mr. Pinkham's kindness," I say, and gather myself up and head to my room. I go in and strip off my soaked garments and wring them out in my basin and hang them as best I can to dry. Tomorrow I'll hang the clothes close to the cooking fires to help them along, but I know I'll be back in my jockey garb in the morning.

  I towel off, throw on my nightshirt, whip back the cover, and crawl gratefully into bed, and never was bed so soft and never was bed so sweet. The storm is abating in the way of wind and high waves and only presses my face against my pillow in a gentle way now. It's funny, but when I'm in my bunk, I feel the motion of the ship, of course, but the closest and most personal thing I feel is my face being pressed into the pillow as the ship comes up from a roll, and then not being pressed as the ship falls back down, and then pressed again, so it's like there's a hand on the side of my head mashing me down and then not and then...

  And then there's this tremendous Crrraaaacccckkkkkkkk! as a thunderclap explodes overhead, and then the long, low rumble of the thunder as it washes over the ship and fades away. The winds and waves are dying, but here come the rainstorm and lightning and now the rumbling thunder and...

  Crrrraaaackkkkkkkk! There's another, and it sure sounds close. Sure hope it doesn't hit the mainmast. Sure hope they've got Doctor Franklin's lightning rod, sure hope...

  Christ! Somebody has just crawled into my bed!

  I feel the body slip in next to me, and I grab the knife that I keep at my bedside, but...

  Georgie?

  "Georgie? What are you doing here?" I ask, astounded.

  "Please, Jacky, I'm so scared..."

  "But, Georgie, you can't stay here, I'm not..." I
'm not dressed is what I'm not. Oh, well...

  I lift the edge of the covers and the puff of hot and moist air that comes up to my face tells me that he has been crying. Oh, Georgie, no...

  Crrraaaacccckkkkkkkk! Another salvo from the heavens hits the ship and he shudders and burrows into my side.

  "I'm scared, Jacky, please let me stay with you!" That's backed up with another Crikkklecrikklecaraaaaakkk from the sky and his trembling redoubles.

  "It's just lightning and thunder now, Georgie, and I can tell it's moving away. Come, let's try it on the next one. Here."

  There is a flash of lightning—I can see the faint light flicker through the seams in the wall to my left, which is also the side of the ship. The boards do not fit all that tightly together and there is a coating of droplets on the inside tonight—they will collect and form rivulets and course down my wall and then down into the bilges. It will be damp in here for a few days after this storm, I know, but still, better in here than out there.

  Upon seeing the flash of lightning, I put my arm around his shuddering form and count, "One, one hundred, two, one hundred, three, one hundred, four..." and then the roll of thunder comes. Rumblerumblecrrraaaaaaackkkkkkk!

  "See, Georgie, it's four miles away now."

  "Don't care, don't care. I'm scared and I want..."

  "What, Georgie, what do you want?"

  He gasps at the next thunderclap and says something that I know is from the very bottom of his little soul.

  "I want my mother..."

  The breath goes out of me. There it is.

  Ah. Georgie, we all want our mothers, don't we...

  I gather him to me and say, "All right, Georgie, but this has to be the last time you do this."

  He burrows his face in my chest. His breath is hot for a while and then it is not. Soon his breathing becomes regular and I know he is asleep.

  I smooth back his hair from his damp brow with my fingers and I look off in the darkness and think:

  I know all of the reasons why we are here and why we fight, but still I do not know why little boys have to stand up in front of cannons. I do not understand it and I do not have to like it.

  Chapter 11

  Comes the morning, I give Georgie a nudge, and rubbing his eyes, he slips out of my bed and stumbles out the door of my room.

  Little sod! I hear from outside, and then the sound of a solid punch, then ... Ow! In with our Jacky, are you? Take this! Again I hear Oooff! as another fist is put in his belly. Little bastard!

  I poke my head out my door. "Let him alone. He promises never to do it again." Wrapping my blanket around myself, I stumble out and plop down at the table. I know my hair is tangled and my nose is bright red and dripping. "Got any tea, Mates? Me mouth tastes like I been cleanin' out the head wi' me tongue."

  That oughta take the bloom off the Jacky Faber rose for 'em, I'll wager. They recoil, but their eyes still show resentment and many a barbed glance is directed Georgie's way.

  "I'm probably on report for my conduct last night. I may be busted down to Seaman. So be it. But right now I am Senior Midshipman and I want some tea or some coffee, and I do not care who gets it for me."

  Several sets of feet scurry out. Robin does not. He sits down across from me. "So you think you are in trouble, then?"

  The coffee appears with Georgie's hands around the mug, and I take it and sink my nose in it and I drink. "I'm always in trouble," I say, and then gulp down some more. "I don't know. I only know that Mr. Pinkham was mad. And I did get above myself, as I am sometimes wont to do."

  "What a surprise," says Robin, drily, sipping at the coffee that was slid in front of him by Ned.

  "We will see. Tom, will you go get my wet uniform and give it to the Weasel to dry up next to the cook fires? Thanks."

  Georgie nurses his wounds but does not seem sorry for his transgression. In fact, he comes over and sits next to me, enduring the barbed looks from his fellows.

  "Well," I say, rising. "I must get dressed and we must get the watch rotation going again or we will be seen as less than scrubs. Tom, you take the Morning Watch. Go out now and assume it. I'll be out in a minute to see how things lie. As soon as I dress." Tom and Ned give Georgie some final nasty looks and go out together.

  I get up and go back into my room and throw off the blanket, making sure the door is closed behind me. Jockey pants, jockey top, stockings, and boots is all I got so I put 'em on and stride back out.

  "Are you sure you're going to go out like that, Jacky?" says Robin, rising.

  Before I can reply, Ned comes back into the berth. "Mr. Pinkham wants to see you," he says ominously.

  Uh-oh.

  "What else shall I wear while my other clothes are drying?" I look at my face in the communal mirror, which is placed there for the midshipmen to shave. Robin is the only one who could use it and him just barely. They shan't see me looking worried. I take inventory of my appearance. Clean enough, I think. I take my hair and twist it and pile it up under my hat. There. I'm presentable.

  "Ned, lend her your jacket," orders Robin.

  Ned strips off his midshipman jacket and goes to hand it to me, but Robin takes it instead and holds it open for me to put on. Well, it won't hurt to be a little more modest when I go out to face Mr. Pinkham, I'm thinking.

  "Ned, Georgie, go find out where the Weasel is with our breakfast," says Robin.

  They leave, a little resentfully, but, after all, Robin is second in command of midshipmen.

  I grab the cuff of my jockey top with my right fingers and shove my right arm through the proffered jacket. Then the same thing with the left. Not a bad fit, I think, as I bring the front together and start to button up. I face Robin. "I wish Ned and Tom weren't being so mean to Georgie over last night. I mean, he is just a boy."

  "They are just jealous," he says, getting a bit red in the cheeks. "As I was jealous, as well."

  Hmmmm...

  "I can button my own buttons, Robin," I say, as he begins to button the jacket. He steps away, shamefaced and confused. I finish the buttons and go to him and put my hands on his shoulders. "But it's nice of you, Robin. Most males I have met so far have tried to unbutton my clothes, rather than the opposite."

  He blushes all the more.

  I pause for a bit and then say, "I'll wager you have no sisters, Robin."

  "What ...?" he says, confused. "No ... no, just two brothers. How did you know?"

  "Because you are not easy with me, Robin, and you are probably not easy with any girl. If you had sisters, especially older sisters, then you would know that girls are not mystical beings but people just like you, and then you would be easy with them. But you will never know that ease, and that is all right, because you are a shy, sweet boy and you will do all right with the girls because of it. We like shyness in a boy ... sometimes. Now, brush me off and I will go see Mr. Pinkham."

  He flicks some pieces of lint off the jacket with the back of his fingertips, careful not to touch my front.

  "You must know, Robin, that I have decided to live single all of my life," I say, putting my hand on his chest and looking in his eye.

  "If that proves to be true, then it will be a shame, Jacky," he says. "Just because he was not good enough for you does not mean that another might not be more true."

  What?

  "That James Fletcher. He was not good enough for you. He should never have left you alone in Boston."

  What?

  "I would never have left you there in Boston. I would have run away with you."

  That damned book!

  "Robin. I don't want to hear that name mentioned again. And I don't want to hear about that book anymore, either!"

  With that I wheel and stalk out of the berth.

  I go to the quarterdeck and present myself to Mr. Pinkham who lets me cool my heels off to the side for a long time before addressing me. Finally, he does.

  "You left the quarterdeck without being ordered to do so last night. Do you admit that?"
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  "Yes, Sir," say I. It would do no good to protest that I was doing it for the good of the ship.

  "You endangered the men in the top who were trying to do their duty while you were showing off and who had to rescue you instead of doing that duty. Is that true?"

  I grit my teeth. "Yes, Sir."

  "And what do you have to say about that?"

  "No excuse, Sir."

  "Very well. Into the foretop till noon."

  I salute and head up into the top. I have always wondered at the mildness of this traditional punishment for wayward midshipmen, it being so mild in comparison with that dealt out to the common seamen. I guess it's supposed to have a certain amount of humiliation in it, but it doesn't bother me any. I just settle in at the top and look at the clouds drifting by and wish I had my pennywhistle and was allowed to play it. Or the Lady Lenore. Or my concertina. But that all seems so long ago, so I put it out of my mind.

  The other lads ain't allowed to visit during this punishment time, so when I see Ned down below, I just take his jacket off and float it back down to him so he can wear it when he relieves Tom on watch. He catches it and waves. Then I settle back and watch the coast of France drift by on the starboard beam, the Wolverine being on the northern leg, and think about things.

  I think about how lucky I've been so far on this voyage, and I'm hoping that my luck holds. If the Captain stays sick, or even dies, then I should be all right. I'm sure to be put off if the Captain is replaced, and then I'll be able to get back to poor Judy. I hope she's all right. I imagine she went to ... his place, but what happened there, I can't guess. Probably got booted out, and then headed back to Cheapside. Hope I gave her enough money to get by for a while. I had some scrimshaw in my seabag that I told her I was going to sell when I got a chance. Maybe she'll sell those to get enough money to keep herself till I get back. Hope she gets a good price, 'cause that is some prime scrimshaw, some of which I had done myself, some of which was done by others to pass the time on the whaler. We would take a piece of white whalebone, scratch a drawing on it with a needle, rub ink on it, and then wipe it off quick. The ink would stay down in the scratches and there we'd have a nice black drawing against the white bone. Mostly I'd do whaling scenes with harpoons and boats and lines and whales, of course, but the men would sometimes do mermaids and such, so you knew where their thoughts were. Men, I swear...