Under the Jolly Roger

by L. A. Meyer

  Bob grabs the bottle and upends it. "Lor'! That's good!" he agrees, after he's drained the rest of the bottle. "What is this stuff?"

  "The stuff dreams are made of, gunner," says I, straightening up as Bill's hands fall from my shoulders and he slips down to the floor. Bob looks at his mate lying there with a certain bleary amusement and then his eyes roll back in his head and he, too, hits the deck. Each of them had drunk enough of the Tincture of Opium to bring a very large racehorse to its knees.

  "Quick! Turn the lamp down low!" I say, and Mairead does it.

  "Are they dead?" she asks, looking down at the two men sprawled on the floor.

  "Nay, Sister, I assure you they are not dead, but they are having the most wonderful dreams of heaven itself. Can you imagine the good time they are having with us right now?"

  "Disgusting," says Mairead, imagining.

  I look up and see the dangling rope that goes up through the roof to the big alarm bell that hangs above. I pull over a chair and climb up on it and pull out my shiv and cut off the rope as high up as I can. Somebody'd have to really work to ring that bell now.

  The bell was the big reason that Mairead and I had to do this job alone. Liam had wanted to send up a bunch of armed men, but our newly found beaus Bill and Bob would have just sounded the alarm and that would have been it. Liam was forced to see the wisdom of my plan, for, even though he hated the thought of his daughter and me doing this, he knew it was absolutely necessary.

  I hop back down. Mairead is tying the hands and feet of my Bill and her Bob, using the lengths of light line she had tied around her waist under her skirt for just that purpose. We can't have them waking up too soon and spreading the alarm.

  Now, for the guns.

  I have a variety of metal spikes with me, fashioned by our shipfitter O'Donnell, tucked into my vest and I go up to the mighty guns lying there all sinister and black in the night. By putting my finger on the guns' powder holes, I am able to choose the right size spikes for the job. I take the hammer I have tied about my waist and, as quietly as I can, I pound the proper nails down into the powder holes till they are flush and cannot be pried back out.

  The Guns of Shotley Gate are spiked.

  Before we left the bunker, Mairead insisted on arranging Bill and Bob side by side, face-to-face on the floor. She placed the now empty bottle of opium and alcohol between them and, from outside the doorway, she found a sprig of clover to put in the bottle's neck. It ain't a shamrock, but it's close. Then we headed back down the hill to Sheehan waiting below. A couple of low hoots and we were back in the boat, and then, back on the Emerald, where Liam said, "Thank God!" and embraced his daughter with great relief. Me, too.

  "Come down to my cabin," I say to my officers. "A cup of coffee with us and we will tell you the tale. At five o'clock we'll start warping her in. The moon should be down by then."

  There will be no more sleep this night.

  The moon was indeed down as we started moving the Emerald into the quay. We secured one of our lifeboats with a short line to the bow of the ship and the men in the boat began quietly rowing. It is slow and tedious work for the boat men, but the Emerald slowly, silently, and surely edges toward the shore. At least there is no breeze to be against us.

  Eventually, at about six thirty, we nudge up next to the wharf.

  We are tied starboard side to the pier—two lines only, one fore, one aft. The starboard guns have had hastily made chocks put under the front wheels of their carriages to get higher elevation, for in their regular positions, they couldn't be brought up high enough to bear on the target. Two of the port guns were brought over in the night and one placed on the bow and one placed aft on the fantail. These will launch the first smoke canisters. All of the guns are loaded and primed and ready to go, matchlocks in place and cocked. There are punks lit, to back up the matchlocks, in case they misfire.

  Our nose is pointed out the harbor. All the sails are rigged and held up by slipknots and are ready to drop and take the air at a mere pull of the line.

  A gray dawn is breaking.

  We have quietly put down the gangway, something we have never been allowed to do in this town. I direct that water barrels be put on the dock to make it look like we are innocently taking on water in preparation for our departure, should anyone be curious. Don't mind us, just a little water, mind you.

  Liam will stay on the ship so as to be ready to get her away instantly. He is our best seaman and he can't be allowed to join in the shore action. He protests, but he is overruled by all. No matter what happens ashore, the Emerald must be able to shake free of this place.

  I am strapped into my fighting gear and I stick two extra pistols into my belt. Higgins looks grim but says nothing, for he knows it will do no good.

  I go back on deck. I see that the Boarding Party is ready, armed with muskets all. Instead of a musket, my hand is on a flagstaff and on it is furled a flag.

  It is now almost full daylight. Still, no one has come down to question our presence at the dock, but, after all, it is Sunday morning and all the good citizens of Harwich are abed.

  "When they come, shoot over their heads," I say in a low voice to them. "We don't want to hurt or kill anyone. Understand?"

  Nods all around.

  I go to check the aim of the guns. I sight over them and they look good to me.

  Liam stands at the rail with his long glass in hand, to watch for my signals.

  "All right, lads. We're ready," I say to all.

  Now we wait. And wait. And wait. Then...

  Bonnnggg! The first peal of the church bell. All tense and take a deep breath.

  Bonnnggg! The second peal. The jailed lads will be walking over and picking up the mattresses.

  Bonnnggg! The third. Now they will be up against the far wall.

  Bonnnggg! The fourth. Now they crouch down. Bonnnggg! The fifth, and they should be covered up as best they can.

  Bonnnggg! The sixth...

  "FIRE!" I scream and CRACK! the Emerald's entire broadside roars out, and nine eighteen-pound balls hurl themselves at one spot in the side of the jail.

  "Let's go!" I shout and head down the gangway with the musket men behind. As planned, half of them cross the quay under the reloading guns and follow John Reilly up to the right of the jail, while the other half follow me up to the left. We will be needed to cover the retreat of the boys once we get them out.

  I've got my eye on the side of the jail as I pound up the slope. The cannonballs had made a cloud of dust when they hit but now it clears away and I can see that the wall is cracked but not yet breached. Smoke canisters have landed and ignited on either side and are pouring out thick, black clouds of smoke. I take my flagstaff in both hands and turn back to face the Emerald, and I put it straight up and then straight down, twice. It is the signal to fire again.

  Instantly, the ship's guns spit out smoke and flame again. The sight of their flashing is followed immediately by the crashing sound of the balls hitting the jail, now not twenty yards away from me.

  Townsmen are pouring out of their houses now, some with guns in their hands. My musket men fall to one knee and fire, the pops of the rifles sounding puny after that of the great guns. Most of the townspeople flee back into their houses, but not all. There is a puff of dust at my feet, and I try to peer through the dust and smoke at the jail....

  There! The wall is breached! There's a jagged, gaping hole in the side, big enough for a man to crawl through.

  I turn and unfurl the black banner and swing it back and forth over my head in great, sweeping arcs, the wicked skull of my Jolly Roger grinning evilly as he looks out over the mayhem. It is the signal to cease firing cannonballs and commence loading smoke canisters to fire randomly and create confusion.

  Confusion we have. Smoke is everywhere. The canvas canisters make little poof! sounds as they hit the ground and turn into smoke, and soon it looks like the whole town is ablaze.

  I turn to go to the broken jail and I see M
airead ... Mairead? Damn that girl!... standing next to me with a cutlass in her hand, her eyes blazing with excitement. At the same time the jailer comes bursting out the door of the jail with a pistol in his hand, which he aims at my face and fires. The ball misses me by a good half inch, and I return the favor by drawing a pistol and laying one next to his own ear. It smacks into the side of the jail as he drops his gun and ducks back inside, his duty, as I am sure he sees it, done.

  "Mairead! Go get the lads out! I'll cover you!" I pull out a fresh pistol and look about for anyone that would trouble us.

  Mairead leaps over the rubble that now covers the ground around the jail and pokes her head in the hole. She yells out something in Gaelic and a great cheer is heard from inside the prison and Kevin Duggan comes out of the hole, blinking at the sudden light, followed closely by Lynch, Hogan, and O'Hara.

  Mairead waves them down to the ship with her cutlass, her hair flaming in the light of the rising sun. "Get on with you! Move it! Come on, Duggan, you run like me grand-mum and she ain't got but one leg! Quickly! We can't cover for you all day now!" She gives Arthur McBride a swat on the tail with the flat of her blade as he emerges grinning into the light. "We should leave you here, boyo, for all the trouble you've caused!"

  I regret that I cannot be right there to give him my boot, also, but we've got trouble—a line of townsmen has drawn up and leveled their muskets at us. I fire off a shot to make them duck, but though they wince at the sound of the ball whizzing over their heads, they do not break ranks. It is only a lucky cloud of smoke that comes between us for a moment that prevents a slaughter.

  "Come on! Let's go!" I shout, turning and going back to the hole in the wall. Ian McConnaughey is out and he looks wonderingly at Mairead waving her cutlass, and then, finally, Padraic Delaney is the last one out, as I knew he would be. "Down the hill! They're gonna fire!"

  I see down below that the first men out, O'Hara, Duggan, Hogan, and Lynch, are almost to the Emerald. McBride, to his credit, turns and stands and gestures for us to hurry, but he doesn't have to 'cause we're all running pell-mell down the slope as fast as we can.

  Behind us there is a shout, like a command, and then there is the rattle of musketry and bullets kick up the dirt around our feet and then ... oh no!... Mairead cries out and drops her cutlass. She pitches forward on her face and rolls head over heels down the hill till she gets to the bottom, and there she lies still. Mairead! No!

  Ian gets to her first. "Dear girl! Oh, please God!"

  "Pick her up, Ian!" I shout as I come up. "Get her on the ship!" He scoops her up in his arms and we keep running. We've got about twenty yards to go when I see Mairead's arms go around Ian's neck such that her head lies on his shoulder facing me as I run behind. God, I hope she ain't hurt bad! I didn't see any blood, maybe...

  Maybe, nothing ... She pops her eyes open and, seeing me, grins and gives me a huge wink.

  Of course... Someday, when all are around the fire and the children are being told of the Great Deeds that their parents did on that day, the day of the Grand Battle of Harwich Port, it cannot be said that she saved him, now could it? Nay. The conniving minx closes her eyes again and nestles her face into the crook of Ian's neck, and so she stays till we charge up the gangplank. Imagine, bullets popping up dust around our feet and she thinks of that!

  "Pull it up!" I shout as my feet hit the gangway, the last one on. "Let's get the Hell out of here!"

  But Liam is way ahead of me. My foot scarcely hits the deck, when the plank is up, and the sails are dropped and filling. The lines are cast off and we begin to move away from the dock.

  Mairead is placed on the main hatch-top where the poor dear recovers consciousness. She raises the back of her hand to her forehead as if in a swoon and says that she had stumbled and then was stunned by the fall and if it hadn't been for that gallant Ian McConnaughey, well, I don't know what...

  Our musket men are lined up at the rail, peppering at those townspeople brave enough to come down to the dock for a parting shot at us.

  "Quickly, Liam," I say. "I think we have worn out our welcome in this town."

  But he ain't listening to me, oh no, for the light of pure rage still burns in his eyes. The newly freed boys make as if to run for their stations but Liam stops them in their tracks. "You men that were taken and caused us this grief!" he roars, "Over to the rail! You, too, McConnaughey! And Padraic! McBride! Especially you!"

  They look confused.

  "NOW!" Liam shouts, and they can tell he means business for they can see it in his face. They do it. They scramble over each other to line up at the rail.

  We have just about cleared the Point and have all sails up and filled and soon will be in open sea when we approach the Guns at Shotley Gate. Some of the men of the town and some of the women, too, have run out on the Point to shake their fists at us, and pointing up at the Guns of Shotley Gate like they're saying, Yer gonna git it now, you rotten Irish scum.

  But, of course, the Guns of Shotley Gate are curiously quiet and do not say a thing against us. We can see the door to the bunker being pulled open and the unfortunate Bill and Bob dragged out, holding their heads and, I suspect, moaning. They are kicked down the slope, and do my eyes deceive me, or is that Biddy Grindle, still in her nightshirt, who's doin' the kickin'? I believe it is.

  Liam looks up at the townspeople who have gathered on the Point to witness our destruction. Though we are out of musket range, the two sides are clearly visible to each other. Liam now turns back to the wayward young men of his crew, those so newly freed of their shackles. They stand wondering at the rail, awaiting Liam's wrath.

  "Face this way and stand at Attention!" he thunders.

  They do it.

  "Now drop your pants! That's right, both trousers and drawers! Do it now, or by the living God that made me, I'll have each and every one of you sorry sons a bitches keelhauled!"

  The pants come down. Most look shamefaced, but that Arthur McBride is not the least bit shy about showing off his equipment, oh no, he isn't. He grins in my direction. Not all that impressive, boyo...

  The now completely recovered Mairead is behind me, rolling around the quarterdeck howling with laughter and delight.

  Ah, Padraic. I have often wondered if boys who have flaming red hair up top also have ... yep.

  "When I say three," he orders, "bend over and touch your toes!

  "One ... two ... THREE!"

  And they do it.

  Liam comes over and places his hand on the back of his son and on the back of Arthur McBride bent over next to him, and bellows out to them on the Point, loud enough for the Lord God above to hear him, "TAKE THAT, YOU EGG-SUCKING ENGLISH DOGS!"

  The good men of the town, and yes, some women, too, are astounded to be presented with the sight of ten bare Irish bums pointed their way as a parting salute. And now, above the row of white bottoms and upon a raised hatch cover, are two girls, one with sandy hair and one with red, each with a hand on the other's shoulder, dancing a demented Irish jig.

  Chapter 41

  We have come full out into the English Channel now, and Liam and I stand on the fantail and watch the plume of smoke that rises over Harwich fade in the distance.

  "Makes you feel rather like a Viking, doesn't it, Liam?" I say.

  He laughs. "For sure, lass, and for sure we will not be welcome in that town ever again."

  "Aye, we'll have to find another port to sell our wares, but we will."

  There's a great hustle and bustle about the deck as the guns are manhandled back into their regular places, cleaned, swabbed, and reloaded. Everyone is in great spirits, not only over the rescue but also over the fact they are going home for the winter.

  I turn to Liam.

  "Liam, will you join me in a victory glass of claret in my cabin as soon as everything is put right? There's something I want to talk to you about."

  He nods, looking interested. "Of course. I'll be down in a minute or two."

  Mairead is h
anging about making eyes at Ian McConnaughey and he back at her from where he's working.

  "Mairead," I say, "up into the maintop with you till I say you may come down. As punishment for joining the battle unbidden." I give her a significant look.

  She pouts but climbs up into the top.

  Liam puts his glass down on the table and Higgins immediately refills it. I have laid out my plan to him and he is thinking hard on it.

  "You know she'll just run away again as soon as we get back. She has said she would. You won't be able to hold her, no matter what," I say.

  "Moira will kill me if I return without her."

  "Moira's gonna kill you, anyway. Me, too."

  "My own girl going off, though ... I don't know."

  "She'd be under the protection and guidance of my grandfather. He is a vicar, you know, and even though he's a Protestant, she would be better off with him rather than alone as a runaway. In the short time we have known him, I think he's shown himself to be a fine man."

  "Aye. And maybe he'd do better with her. God knows I've failed."

  I put my hand on his. "Nonsense. She's a fine, brave, high-spirited girl. You ought to be very proud of her."

  "Ah, well. If Mairead agrees, I will give my blessing."

  I think it would be best for me to talk to Mairead alone. Liam nods, knocks back his glass, and leaves. Higgins goes to call in Mairead. I wait and drum my fingertips on the table.

  Presently Mairead comes in, does a mock curtsy, and says, "You called, Mistress?"

  "Knock it off, Mairead, and sit down."

  She does so and folds her hands on her lap, putting a blank expression on her face. I know, since she just saw her father leaving, that she thinks she's going to get a lecture on being a good girl when she gets back to Ireland, something she has absolutely no intention of being.