With that, I do a Right Face, take one more step, bring the heels together, and a Left Face.
"Name and rating," I say.
"Shaughnessy, Able Seaman."
"Able Seaman, what, Shaughnessy?"
"Shaughnessy, Able Seaman, Miss Faber."
"Good." I give him the once-over. Reasonably presentable. On to the next.
"Name and rating." As I turn to face this one, I see he is shaking with fury at being subjected to this indignity, this scrutiny by a woman, a woman not halfway out of her teens, to boot. Finally he gets out through clenched teeth, "Harkness. Gunner. Rated Able."
Ah. This is one of the men Harper mentioned as being a leader belowdecks. He is a solidly built man, broken nose, scar on left cheek, muscles working in his strong jaw. His eyes are cased and look out over the top of my head. Hmmm.
"Perhaps, Seaman Harkness," I say, "it would be well for you to give your deference and your obedience to my uniform and position and not to the person in it. I think it might be easier for you to think of it that way."
"Yes, Midshipman Faber," he says, taking my advice.
I turn to the next man, and so on down the line.
I know, of course, that the entire crew is watching this ritual with the keenest of interest, and that is good. I have never been shy about being onstage, being the center of attention, and, in fact, I have often craved it, but that is not why I'm doing this now. I'm doing it because I want every man aboard to come to know me very, very well.
I come to the end of the line, to the boy. He is the only one shorter than me, and not by much.
"Name and rating."
"Tam Tucker, Ship's Boy," he says, with a bit of cheekiness in his voice. He is a curly headed, good-looking boy with an air of good humor about him.
"Very good, Tucker. I was once a ship's boy and I enjoyed it very much. How many of you are there?"
"There's three, Mum ... er ... Miss Faber. It's me, Eli, and—"
"Attention on Deck!"
I turn and go back to the other end of the line and take my position in front and wait for the Captain to get to us. It doesn't take long.
He stumps up in front of me, leaning on a cane. His ship is immaculate, but he, for certain, is not. His eyes are bleary and his chin unshaven. His clothes are dirty and I swear he smells of old, dried piss. And, again, the white stain on the lips. I whip my hand up to the brim of my hat and say, "Division One, ready for Inspection, Sir."
He looks me over and grunts. It is to be hoped that the pain of his gouty leg and whatever is happening in his vile guts has overpowered any amorous thoughts he might have had of me. May it be so, I wish with all my heart. He turns and walks down the line, with me following behind. He stops in front of a young seaman whose name is Langley and who is plainly terrified by all this.
The Captain looks back at me and, with a sly look on his face, says, "This is what I think of your division." He lifts his cane and whips it across Langley's cheek, cutting him most cruelly. The boy cries out at the suddenness of the blow, but thank God does not lift his hands in protection, as it probably would have been the end of him if he had raised his hand to his Captain. The blood pours out of the wound and down his face and into the neck of his shirt.
"Your men are a disgrace and your guns are a mess," the Captain snaps to me. I look in his face and see again the horrid tic and evil eye heading off on its own.
"Yes, Sir," I say, knowing full well he did not even glance at the guns, which I had already seen were in good order. "I will attend to it."
The Captain lurches on. I see him go on to cause the same sort of havoc in each of the other divisions until finally he goes to the podium set up on the main hatch. He faces his crew.
"Today's sermon will be the Articles of War." And he proceeds to read the offenses that a poor seaman might commit in the line of duty, most of which are punishable by death. The Captain roars out the word death each time it is called for.
"Death! Do you hear me, you miserable whoreson bastards! Death for Insubordination! Death for Mutiny! Death for Anything I Goddamn Well Say! Death!"
He pauses for breath. It is no wonder every man aboard lives in mortal fear of him. Hell if a man abides all this, death if he resorts to mutiny.
"This ship is a pigsty and everyone aboard, officer or man, is a pig, wallowing in his own filth! There shall be no holiday routine today! Back to work, all of you!"
With that, he turns and goes down to his cabin, no doubt to put his leg on a pillow and curse the fates that afflict him so.
Mr. Pinkham, his face red with shame, calls out, "Division officers, you may dismiss your sections. Turn them to and commence ship's work."
I turn to mine. "Harkness. See that the men get something to eat and then muster them here at the guns at Three Bells. Make sure a plate is kept for Langley. Langley, you come with me. Division One, dismissed!"
With that, I lead the bleeding Langley forward to find the orlop and what passes for a surgeon on this bark.
My cheeks are burning with my own shame at my conduct in not speaking up after the Captain hit Langley. The correct procedure for a captain who finds a minor fault in an inspection is to inform the division officer, who would then dish out the proper punishment to the wrongdoer, and I should have spoken up and said that, but I didn't, and shame on me.
We go down two decks and find what passes for a surgeon sitting in his dark hole of a surgery surrounded by evil-looking saws and knives, which I know are for the cutting off of arms and legs after a battle. He's called a loblolly boy, which is the Navy's word for a surgeon's assistant. This particular loblolly boy is about sixty years old and half blind, peering up at me through dirty spectacles. Quite a specimen, I'm thinking, hoping I'm never quite so unlucky as to ever come under this man's care.
"Is this part of the Inspection, then?" he says. No, on a normal ship a decent captain would have gotten down this far, but not on this one.
"No," I say, looking around at the dim light and sniffing the fetid air. "We need this man stitched up."
I had examined Langley's wound and I could see the whiteness of tendons beneath the gore, and so knew it needed to be sewn up, otherwise it would maybe fester and would certainly leave a ghastly scar. And on such a pretty lad, too.
"I don't know, Miss Whatever-you-are," he shakily says. "I don't know..."
And then I see his hands shaking with palsy. Christ!
"Do you even know your own name, man?" I demand, furious as Langley stands bleeding helplessly beside me.
"Why, yes, Miss, it's Earweg, Miss," he stammers, "Edwin Earweg, loblolly boy."
"All right, then, Earweg," I say, "where's the thread? And I'll need a hooked needle."
"Here, Miss," he says, obviously relieved of not having to do his job. He opens a drawer and hands me the needle and thread.
"Spirits of wine. I'll need some of that, too. And bandages. And healing salve."
"Spirits of wine? Oh, I don't know, Miss, I can't..."
"Yes, you can, unless you want to be brought before your Captain."
"Oh, yes, right now, Miss, right now," he says as he fumbles for a key that hangs on a cord about his scrawny neck. After he manages to grasp the elusive key, he inserts it into the lock of a large chest. "I just now saw the Captain and I gave him his medicines, I did—those on the shelf right there—Salts of White Mercury and Tincture of Lead Antimony, and Arsenic Powder, too. I'll bleed him again tomorrow, I will. He's coming along just fine, he is. Soon be good as new."
He pulls out a quart bottle of spirits that's half full—probably been at it himself, the sod—and I spot another bottle in there with cloudy contents that look familiar.
"Is that paregoric? Tincture of Opium?"
"Yes, Miss. Oh, my, yes. Oh, my."
"Good. Give him a shot of it."
He takes a small glass and, for all his shaking hand, the loblolly boy does not spill a drop.
Langley takes it and tilts his head back and swallows it.
"Like candy," he says.
"A lot have said that," I say, refilling the glass with the clear spirits of wine. "Let's go find some light."
We go forward and find ourselves in the tiny midshipmen's berth with its open hatch above letting in plenty of light. Ned, Tom, and Georgie are there, looking wide-eyed at me and the bloody-faced sailor.
"Here. Langley, get up on the table. Boys, get me some clean rags and some clean water. Georgie, go get Robin." They leave to do it.
Langley climbs on the table and lies down faceup, not looking all too happy. I look up, sensing that there are some above the hatch keeping an eye, or at least an ear, on the proceedings.
"What is your first name, Langley, and what is your age?"
"Joshua, Miss Faber, and I'll be seventeen come Friday, and I ... didn't do nothin' wrong, I ..." Tears course out of his eyes and down his temples.
"I know, I know," I say. You were just the youngest and most handsome in the line, which is why he did it. "Just relax now."
He ain't relaxing, watching me thread the hooked needle and dipping it and the thread into the spirits. I see Robin come into the room.
"We've got to do this, Joshua, otherwise your face might not heal proper, and at the very least you'll have a big nasty scar there and you want the girls to still blink their eyes at you, don't you?" I say in a singsong soothing way. "I know you've got a girl back home, and I bet she's proud of her salty sea sailor, ain't she, Joshua? What's her name? I'm sure she's pretty."
The Midshipmen have come back with the cloth and water.
"Yes, Miss, her name is Rose and she is very, very pretty, and I want to see her so bad."
"Hold Joshua's hands now, Ned and Tom. Robin, if you will hold his head steady." And I lean over. "Time to be brave for Rose now, Joshua Langley."
He is brave.
"We are done now, lad," I say, when I'm mopping the blood from his face and neck. I dab the stitched wound with the last of the spirits and then carefully apply the salve and then wind the white bandage about his head and fasten it with the metal frogs.
I compliment myself on a neat and fast bit of stitching—try doing this kind of embroidery, Amy, Dolley, Clarissa, and the rest of you fine ladies back at the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls, just you try it.
"And you could not have been more stoic, Joshua. You know, I had that done to me once—see, under my white eyebrow here?—and what I remember most about it now is how I cried and howled all the way through it. Here. Sit up."
He sits up, looking slightly woozy.
"Mr. Piggott. Lend your arm to Seaman Langley and take him back to his berth and see that his hammock is slung. He will be on the Sick List for the remainder of this day, at least. Oh, and get his plate of food from the mess deck." They go out, Georgie maybe a bit more shaky than Langley.
I take a pitcher of water and a basin and go into my room to wash up. I leave the door open so I can see Ned and Tom out there looking greenish—and I don't blame them, as that's probably the first real blood they've seen, close up like that. Robin seems all right, though. He just stands there looking in at me, without expression, as I wash my hands and splash water on my face.