Damn! If I had my shiv I could cut the hair by which I am held and escape, but I don't have my shiv! I remember, only this morning, thinkin' about whether or not to take it with me. Stupid!
Then I am pulled aboard and I kick and twist and fight my way to the side and look out toward France and there's the shore right there! I am so close! I can hear the breakers! I can smell the spray! Damn!
"Hold her, dammit! Goddamn slippery eel, she is! Hold her, for Chris'sakes! Look out! Hold her! Watch out, she'll bite! Ow! Damn!"
I put a heel in one bloke's crotch and my elbows wherever I can and I get Oooofs! and Arrrgghhhs! but I don't get loose. Eventually there're three sets of arms around me and a pair of hands gripping my ankles and one hand still entangled in my hair so I give it up and lie there panting.
The grizzled old seaman who has me around the neck puts his rough lips against my ear and whispers, "Ye would've gotten clean away from this Hell Ship, girl, if'n you hadn't stopped to save poor Billy, and me mates and me ain't gonna be forgettin' that."
Well, at the very least I shall have a few friends aboard.
"Do you know that desertion is a hanging offense, girl?" roars the Captain when I am taken back aboard.
The unfortunate Billy is stretched out over a barrel and his mates are rolling him back and forth to pump out the water. It looks like he will live, if only just.
"How can I desert from something that I don't belong to?" says I to the Captain. I stick my chin in the air and put on the Look, which probably looks right stupid on me standing there dripping in my clinging wet silks, which have gone all transparent, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind as to what exactly I am in the way of gender, but I do it, anyway. I know that Mistress Pimm would have wanted me to, so I stick my nose high in the air, eyes hooded, lips together, teeth apart. Though that last bit is gettin' kinda hard to do as I'm beginning to shiver and my teeth are chattering.
"Belong? Ah, well, then let's have you belong for sure," says the Captain, and he turns to the officer I had seen before. "Mr. Pinkham, have her read into the ship's company log as an Ordinary Seaman. Then take the ship another half mile offshore so she doesn't get the notion to try to swim for it again."
"But, begging your pardon, Sir," says the obviously distressed Mr. Pinkham, "you can't—"
"Where does it say that I can't? I'm Captain of this goddamned ship and I can do whatever I goddamn well want! Now do what I goddamn tell you."
Pinkham doesn't answer. While this is going on, I'm shivering and forcing myself to think, Girl, you are in a lot of trouble here! What's best to do? and then I decide.
"If you are going to do that, Captain," I pipe up and say, "then you must enter me as a Midshipman, as that is my true rank. My name is Jacky Faber, and I was commissioned by Captain Locke of HMS Dolphin on July the twentieth, eighteen hundred and three."
Now that finally gets a murmur out of the crew.
The Captain barks out, "Do any of you here know that to be true?" He looks around at the men silent in the rigging.
Finally a voice says, "Aye, Sir, that's Jacky Faber, all right. I was on the Dolphin with her."
I look around for the owner of the voice, but I can single no one out. I shall have to find out. Perhaps it will be another friend, and I know I will need all the friends I can muster.
"A Midshipman, hey?" He looks amused. "Then let's see what you know, Midshipman. What is the procedure for getting under way and standing before the wind?"
Well, ain't I seen that done a hundred times, standing on the quarterdeck with my drum? Ain't I heard the Dolphin's middies recite this a hundred times for Captain Locke, the sweat pouring out from under their caps as they squirmed under his gaze? I put my hands behind me in Parade Rest and I start:
"Sir. Make all preparations for getting under way, heave in, and make sail as before. Lay the main and mizzen topsails square aback; the fore one sharp aback, according to the side it is intended to cast—heave in, cant her the right way with the helm before tripping, and as soon as the velocity of the stern board is greater than that of the tide, shift the helm, grapple the buoy, run up the jib as soon as it will take, and haul aft the weather sheet. While falling off, cat and fish the anchor, as she gathers headway, shift the helm: When before the wind, right it, square the head yards, and brail up the jib—set topgallant sails, royals, and foresail—haul taut the lifts, trusses, and backstay falls, and, if necessary, set the scudding sails."
Then I pause. Then, in conclusion, I say, "Sir."
The Captain sneers off in the direction of four boys of various ages standing off to the side dressed as midshipmen and looking confused and abashed.
"Hear that, my fine midshipmen?" They don't say anything, they just look at their feet or straight ahead, depending on how old they are. The Captain turns his attention back to me.
"So you are that one, then, that one who is the talk of the fleet?" asks the Captain, beaming. "Yes, Midshipman would definitely be better. No problem with fraternization with the lower decks then. Good, good," he says, nodding. "Mr. Pinkham! Write her in as Midshipman Jack Faber. If Locke could do it, so can I, by God!"
Then, suddenly, as if all this shouting had broken something inside him, he groans and grabs his side. "Send for Earweg," he wheezes, doubling over. "I need my medicine! Now!"
He staggers to the hatchway, which must lead to his cabin, but before he goes down, he turns and gasps, "Take her below, fit her out, and mark me, every last one of you dogs—nobody lays a hand on her, d'ye hear? Captain Abraham Scroggs will not have soiled goods!" The silence on this ship is such that all hear his words very plain.
In a few moments, I'm taken down a ladder and into the midshipmen's berth and the four of them stand there lookin' at me standing there shivering in my silks.
"Date of rank," I say, lookin' about the dim interior for something to cover myself with.
They are confused. "What? We..."
"When were you made midshipmen is what I mean." I'm losing patience. I'm cold and getting very cranky.
The oldest of the lot, a likely looking boy of about sixteen, clears his throat and nervously says, "We were all brought aboard about a month ago and—"
"So that makes me Senior Midshipman, then," I says, cutting him off cruelly. "So get me a blanket and be quick about it, boy. And where's my bunk?" Sorry, lad, but I've got to establish myself right off.
He is startled by my rudeness, but he stifles his anger and says, "Here." He goes over and opens a door to a closet-sized room, and he stands back and I go in and look about. A bed, with drawers underneath. A dry sink and basin. Some hooks on the wall. That's it, but I've seen worse, and tired as I am, it looks like home to me.
A knock on the side of the cabin and a hand holds out a blanket to me. I take it, close the door behind me, and strip off my poor silks. I hang them on the hooks in hopes they'll dry in some sort of shape. I towel off with the blanket and rub myself briskly to take out some of the cold. After a little while my skin starts to pink up and I stop shivering so violently.
Then I wrap the blanket about me and step back out into the midshipmen's berth. There is a table and some chairs and an open hatch overhead letting in the air. At least we shan't suffocate on days when it ain't raining.
"What have you got for me to wear?" I say, sitting down at the table. I know I must present a comely sight, my hair plastered to my head, made thick with the salt water, and my nose red and running, my feet all veiny and blue. "Is there any hot tea?" Then I sneeze a fine spray of mist all over the table.
The older boy jerks his head at the littlest boy, who ducks his head and scurries out. The rest of them stare at me. Aside from the older boy, there are two who seem to be of the same age, that being about twelve.
"I'll need drawers, a shirt, trousers, and a jacket. And stockings. My boots will serve me for shoes. A cap, if one can be found," I say. "And the loan of a comb and some ribbon to tie back my hair."
The younger ones scurry into their cubbyholes and come out with the drawers, shirt, pants, stockings, and other items. The older boy goes into his room and comes out with a black midshipman's jacket. "I have grown out of it, and I will take great pleasure if you will accept it. We will have to share the comb."
Hmmm. Courtly. Has manners. Here's a likely one, maybe.
"And what is your name, Sir?" I ask.
He bows and says, "Robin. Robin Raeburne, at your service, Miss, and I am sorry for your recent troubles." He has dark, curly, reddish brown hair, and a fine straight nose, good chin, with a high, clear, and intelligent forehead. He's probably a Scot with that name and that hair.
I give a slight dip by way of an answer to his bow and say, "Don't be. I brought it on myself, as usual."
The small boy comes back in, bearing a mug of steaming tea. He seems to be all of eight years old, his black midshipman's jacket hanging rather loosely on him. Comically loose. He hands the cup to me with both hands, slightly shaking so that some of the tea sloshes out over his hands.
I take the cup and gratefully bring it to my lips. "Ahhh." I breathe as the hot liquid goes down my throat, warming me. "And you, young sir. What is your name?" He is short, round in the face, and blond. His ice blue eyes are open in unabashed wonder.
"Georgie Piggott, Miss," he pipes. "And are you really the girl in the book?"
Oh, Lord.
I sigh and say that I suppose I am, but you shouldn't believe everything you read. The other two squeakers are looking at me in wonder, too. I raise my eyebrows in question at them and one says, "Ned Barrows, Mum," and the other says, "Tom Wheeler."
Ned is a dark-haired boy, with thick curls close to his head, and an open face—cheerful, honest, and slightly pug-nosed. Tom is blondish, with his hair hanging to his shoulders, and he has blue eyes, and a foxy, inquisitive face. Ned is sturdy, while Tom is slight. Again, I place them both at the age of twelve and it is plain that they are close friends.
"Fine. What's for dinner?"
Dinner turns out to be simple seamen's rations—salt pork, biscuit, and pease porridge—brought on a tray by a sullen sailor who dumps the stuff on the table without a word. As he leaves, I give the sailor a look that says, We'll be taking care of that attitude in the future, mark me, man.
We turn to and I tap my biscuit and sure enough several weevils fall out. I brush them off the table and take a bite of the biscuit, taking care to see what the bite exposed in the way of further bugs. Not too bad, I notice. Then I tuck into the salt pork, using my fingers, as I have no knife. Not yet I don't. The three younger ones regard me with unwavering stares. Robin, however, just looks quiet and withdrawn. Sullen, even. You'd think he'd be delighted by being presented with the close company of what has already proved to be a frolicsome young dame, but he ain't. Maybe he's just shy, or maybe I just look too ratty.
"Best tuck in, Mates," I say, "never can tell when next you'll eat again." That bowl of pease porridge—I ain't shy about putting that away, either. Nothing like a brisk swim for the appetite. "So who's got what watch? Are we One-in-Three, then?"