by L. A. Meyer
And we did roam the sea, that spring and summer of 1805, a sleek, green, waterborne wolf on the prowl. We roamed and raided and plundered and sang and danced and roamed and raided some more. We began in our old hunting grounds and bagged us a few fat prizes, but the French soon grew wary and we headed south to bother the Spaniards again. When that grew tame, we became bolder as we pushed on into the Mediterranean and lurked around the Spanish ports and nailed ships coming out of their harbors and we sold them in Algiers, where no questions were ever asked. We pushed up to the east coast of France, to Nice, to Marseilles, and made many a captain sorry he had ever set sail and crossed our wake. We rocked and rolled across the waves, we chased ships and we caught them, and other ships chased us, but they never caught the Emerald, oh no, not my fast and nimble Emerald. We went to Italy, to Malta, and Corsica, and we changed our flag at the masthead from the British Union Jack to the American Stars and Stripes and, yes, even to the Jolly Roger, himself, anytime it suited us. We plundered the north coast of Africa and when things got too hot for us, we crossed the big pond and went to the Caribbean and came back with more Spanish gold. We drank and danced and caroused in ports from Kingston to Saint Vincent, from Palma to Naples, from Rome to Palermo, from Gibraltar to Cork.
In short, we prospered.
When September came we headed back to the west coast of France, from whence we had started. We prowled but came up with nothing. Then, when we were about to give it up, there came that welcome call from the masthead:
"On deck there! A ship! Off the starboard bow! A merchant by the looks of her!"
"Let's get her, Liam," I shout as I run to the rail to gloat over my next prize. "Higgins! My sword!"
We run her down without too much trouble and soon are aboard. The passengers are lined up on the deck, most of them, as usual, quivering with fear.
Most, but not all. One of them is definitely not scared. She is a little old woman, very much bent with age, but looking at me with such pure and unabashed hatred that I almost have to look away. Curiously, she has a rolled-up newspaper under her arm.
"Now, grand-mere," I say in French, "there's no need to be afraid. We don't rob passengers of their personal things and we will not hurt you."
"Don't give me that grand-mere stuff, you piece of filth!" she snarls at me in accented English. "You, you take our boat, you take our life! We were only trying to get our tulips to market."
"All right now, Granny," says Padraic, taking her arm and leading her to the boat. She rips her arm out of his grasp and points the newspaper at my nose. I think she might even try to swat me with it.
"They're going to catch you and put you up on the gallows, you damned pirate! And I hope you twist a good long time before you go off to Hell!"
I put my sword back in its sheath and cross my arms over my chest. "But won't the French prefer to use the guillotine if they happen to catch me, n'est ce pas?" I say with a wide grin. "But, as the famous recipe for rabbit stew goes, 'First, catch the rabbit...'"
"The French? It won't be the French, it will be the English! Your own people will kill you, chienne, and then you won't be laughing."
I know the meaning of the things she is calling me and I am growing weary of this game. "Get them in the boat," I say to Padraic and turn to Liam. "What's in the cargo?"
"Tulip bulbs. Tons of tulip bulbs."
"Ah, good," I say and mean it. Tulips are the very rage of London.
But it seems the old woman is not yet done. "Here, putain," she spits, and flings the newspaper at my feet. "Read your doom."
I am now very tired of this old woman. "Get her gone," I say to Padraic, and he hustles her off, spitting and cursing.
Carelessly, I pick up the paper and glance at it. I'm surprised to see that it is a London paper, Lloyd's List and Shipping Gazette, and only about two weeks out of date. The Gazette is full of nautical news—merchant ship departures and arrivals and such, and it also has news concerning the Royal Navy, promotions, sailings, policy, and the like. It's read religiously by Naval officers to keep an eye on who's getting ahead and who ain't. I look over an account of Lord Nelson chasing the French and Spanish Fleet to the Caribbean and back ... and Captain Locke has been made a Vice Admiral and that cheers me—Good Captain Locke! I wish you the joy of your Flag, Sir. And then my eye gets to the bottom of the page, and...
Good Lord!
"Liam! Get the men back on board! All of them!" I shout.
"But what of the prize?" asks Liam, looking confused.
"To Hell with it! Cast it off! Let them go!"
"What..."
"We have been betrayed. We've got to get out of here, fast!" I leap back on board the Emerald. "All men aloft! Make all sail! Liam! In my cabin!"
The men, mystified, do what I say, and the ships begin to drift apart. I see the old woman, in command of her boat again, standing with feet apart on her deck, fists on hips, laughing. "Run, saloup, run for your worthless life!"
Liam and I pile into my cabin and I tell him what the paper says.
"But what of your Letter of Marque?" he asks, "Surely..."
"Worthless, now," I growl. "Gather the men."
Liam leaves the cabin and I hand the paper to a mystified Higgins. He reads it and looks up, greatly concerned. "We'll have to get lawyers on this," he says.
"First, we have to get away, then we'll see about lawyers," I say and go out on deck. The men have assembled and I read out the notice posted in the Gazette:
AN ORDER TO ALL OF HIS MAJESTY'S SHIPS:
A Warrant is hereby issued for the arrest and containment
of one Jacky Faber, a Female, and her crew aboard a ship
calling itself the Emerald, this ship having been taken
unlawfully from His Majesty's Prize Court by said Female.
She has in her possession a Letter of Marque that was
obtained under Fraudulent Circumstances and has been
revoked by Order of The First Lord of the Admiralty. She
has been seen harrying ships in and about the Channel.
She is to be considered a Dangerous Pyrate, and a
reward is offered for her Capture:
Alive, Two Hundred and Fifty Pounds Sterling.
Dead, One Hundred Pounds.
Either she, or her Head, is to be delivered to the
Admiralty for trial or disposition.
The men stand stunned when I am done. There is more to the notice—a description of me right down to size, weight, scars, and tattoo, but I don't bother to read that.
Then the rumbling starts ... Damned two-faced English bastards ... too good to be true, I knew it all along ... try to take our Jacky, will they ... over my dead body...
"Men," I shout, "we have to keep calm, and we've got to keep our wits about us, but most of all we've got to get out of here and away from the English fleet. When we've got some sea room, we'll have some time to think about what we're going to do. As for now, bend on all the canvas we've got—skysails, scudders, anything she'll hold!"
She will hold quite a lot of sail, it seems, for even as I shout the order, the wind dies and the sails hang limp and there we sit, becalmed, not twenty miles from the British fleet on the blockade, every one of them now knowing that my ship is a pirate and that there is a price upon my head.
Chapter 45
Lieutenant James Emerson Fletcher
On Board HMS Wolverine
On Patrol off the Coast of France
September 23, 1805
Dearest Jacky,
If ever I had thought that news of you, my wild lost girl, would always be a welcome thing, I was dead wrong. Today we received a message from the Flag informing the entire fleet that there is a price on the head of one Jacky Faber, Female Outlaw and Pirate, and that she is to be hunted down and destroyed with all dispatch.
It seems that when you were, incredibly, in command of the Wolverine, you took four French ships as prizes but turned in only three of them to the Admiralty.
How clever of you, but then you were always oh so very clever, weren't you? You have certainly outdone yourself this time, though—a ship, Jacky, an entire ship! How could even one such as you, willful, headstrong, reckless, and wildly impulsive as you are, have thought you would get away with something like that? Did you not think that the Admiralty would eventually find out about your deception? Did you not think the First Lord could do simple math? And piracy to boot, my God ... I choose not to believe the Belle Fille sans Merci stories, for I know you to have a good heart and could not have done those things. But the taking of prizes on very shaky grounds, well, I have no choice but to believe that, as it is so widely reported.
Could you not have just quietly gone back to school or to some other worthy and peaceful pursuit after leaving the Wolverine, having already had many more adventures than any man has in a lifetime, let alone a girl of your tender years? No, I suppose not...
Oh yes, and the sum of Two Hundred and Fifty Pounds is offered for your head, if that stupid head is still attached to the rest of you; One Hundred Pounds, if it is not. Interesting, that—apparently the Admiralty would like to talk to you before they hang you, but they will take the head either way, it seems. Two hundred and fifty pounds is a princely sum. I am sure every captain in the fleet is licking his chops. You will be actively pursued, count on it.
Jacky, I can only hope with all my heart that you get wind of this before you are caught and that you take both yourself and your ship to the other side of the world and live out your life happily there, for there is no life for you here. Not a long one, anyway.
Oh yes. I passed for Lieutenant.
Despairingly,
Jaimy
Chapter 46
Morning finds us in very light winds and a very heavy fog. I am extremely uneasy. I don't like the feel of this at all. I shush all on deck to be silent and I listen. I hear only the creak of the riggings, and not much of that, it being so still and quiet. I climb into the ratlines and lean out, straining to hear. Did I just hear something off to port there ... maybe not. If there is a ship out there, he's trying to be just as quiet as me. Was that a tiny ding? Was the clapper of a ship's bell not properly secured? Probably nothing, I think. Just getting jumpy. Best go get my breakfast.
I had plenty of time to think these past few days, sitting here becalmed and nervous as hell, hearing phantom noises out in the mist. I thought about the Admiralty. Why the difference in the reward for bringing me back—two hundred and fifty pounds alive or one hundred pounds for my head in a sack? That's a lot of money, two hundred and fifty pounds—that's a captain's pay for a year. They must want to talk to me for some reason ... maybe they think I know more about the spy ring than I told them? But I told them everything I knew. They couldn't get anything else out of me even with torture. I shiver at the thought of being tortured. I know I could never hold up under something like that. If it's just that they want to shut me up about what I know, why don't they just put up a reward for me dead and be done with it? My head delivered to them in a bag would certainly be more portable, and I would certainly be very, very quiet from then on. I don't know, I just don't know.
I do know, though, that every captain in the fleet is licking his chops, thinking about laying his hands on me and claiming that reward. I swear, if I get out of this, I'm going to carry rum from Barbados to Boston and granite from Boston to Jamaica. In the summer I'll ferry Irishmen across the ocean to work in Boston—that's it—I'll take their indenture for the passage and get paid when they find work—and there's plenty of work there. That's it. That's what I'll do. I promise. It won't be as exciting, but at least it'll be steady and I won't get hanged for it.
Before going down to my cabin to the breakfast that Higgins has surely laid out, I gaze into the fog in the direction of the French coast for a few moments more, but I don't see anything but gray. The breeze quickens on my cheek as I swing down to the deck and I jerk my head around. Thank God! Maybe the wind is coming up! Maybe... The sails give a hopeful flap and start to fill ... but wait ... is there something out there? Did I hear a noise? Wait...
The breeze gusts again and then it roars right in and sweeps away the fog like it was a dirty rag, and there, there, not a hundred yards away is HMS Wolverine, all her sails set and bearing down on us like the very wrath of God, Himself.
"Port your helm! Hard alee!" I scream. "Let's get the Hell out of here!"
Damn!
We fall off and our sails fill again but the wind had hit the Wolverine before it hit us and we have lost precious time and even more precious distance between us!
The Emerald finds her feet and claws her way through the water.
"Heave to and prepare to be boarded!" comes the call from across the water.
Not just yet, Captain Trumbull.
Liam comes up next to me, looking mighty worried.
"Crowd on all she's got, Liam, or we are lost!"
"All aloft to make sail!" he calls out, and men scramble to the top. "Set the skysails, the stuns'ls, the scudders! Every scrap of sail!"
They do it and the Emerald leaps forward, every board, every line groaning under the strain, but the Wolverine had gained so much ground, she having caught the new wind first, that I just don't know...
Then I hear it, from across the water:
Were-wolves! Were-wolves! Were-wolves!
Damn!
There is a deep boom and a puff of smoke from the Wolverine's bow chaser. The ball whizzes through the rigging. They've got us in range, that's for sure, but they can only bring the Long Tom to bear—if they swing around for a broadside and miss, then we will get clean away. Do it! We'll take our chances!
But they don't do it. What they do is crowd on more sail and keep coming.
Were-wolves! Were-wolves! Were—
The chant cuts off abruptly. The men of my old crew must have just found out that it's me that they're chasing.
"Will we fire on them?" asks Liam, coming up beside me.
"No, we can't. Those are my friends over there. And besides, it will go harder on us if we are captured and we have shot at them. I think we can outrun them."
And, indeed, the distance between us seems to be widening. Good, good, fleet Emerald! Show them your tail!
There is another shot from the Wolverine. Liam and I watch the ball fall short. It skips by our starboard side. We grin at each other.
Then we ain't grinning.
Uh-oh.
The Wolverine has come about in a last-ditch effort to stop us. She means to give us a broadside. My old Division One will fire on me! She brings her port guns to bear, and I hear Trumbull yell Fire! and I hear Eli beat the drum. I hear the thunder of the guns and I watch for the shots to fall.
Most fall short, and two bounce by our port side, but one, one which the gun captain had wedged to shoot high, almost like a mortar, arcs high, and we watch in fascination as it drops down toward us. If it hits our deck, it will do some damage, but the wound will not be mortal. And then we will be away.
But it doesn't do that. What it does is hit our mainmast square on. The mast splinters and comes crashing down to the deck, mainsail, royal, gallant, and all.
"Cut it away!" I scream, leaping on the tangled wreckage and hacking away at the lines with Persephone. Liam and the others take axes to the mess. If we can get it off, we might yet get away!
But it is not to be. The sail drags in the water, slowing us down to a crawl. The Wolverine heaves alongside with her starboard guns pointing right into our sides. There is a mighty crash as the Werewolves fire the full broadside right into my side, and right at the waterline. The Emerald reels from the blow and starts to settle. I know the wound is mortal. It is over. We are lost.
I go back to the fantail and strike my colors, so that they will not pound us anymore. The red, white, and blue curls around me as I run back forward and down into my cabin. I get my Letter of Marque and put it in my jacket and I look about at my cabin ... oh, I loved you so ... for the la
st time and lift my seabag and go back on my quarterdeck and wait. I have told Liam to pose as a member of the crew, as it will go easier for him that way. I shall be Captain in these, the last moments.
It does not take long. First it is a few seamen over my starboard side, seamen I recognize, and who, with a shock, recognize me. Then Captain Trumbull, then Jared, then ... Jaimy. They see me standing there and come over to me. As they approach, I pull out one of my pistols.
"You struck your colors, damn you!" shouts the Captain, stepping back. But the pistol is not for him.
I put the barrel under my chin and say, "What will become of my men?"
"Jacky, no...," says Jaimy.
"They are all prime seamen," I continue, the barrel cold against my throat. "Will you press them and nothing more? I cannot bear to see anything happen to them."
The Captain considers. "We need the men," he says.
"On your honor as a gentleman, you will press them and nothing more?"
"On my honor."
I point the pistol to the deck. The Captain comes up and roughly pulls the pistol from my hand. Then he yanks the other one from my belt, and I watch both clatter to the deck.
"What will happen to you, however, is another matter entirely," he says. "Bind her and take her back. Check below for cargo. Save what you can."
Heavy hands are put on me, and I am bound and taken away.
I am put to my knees at the foot of the mainmast of the Wolverine, so that I can fully enjoy the proceedings, I suppose. What they can salvage is taken off the Emerald and put below. My men are read the Articles of War and are signed on the ship's roster. All the boats are brought back and loaded aboard. My former Wolverine shipmates, my loyal midshipmen, all gaze at me in wonder and pity.