The time topside is beneficial not only to my body, but also to my mind, for it gives me a chance to size some things up. The state of this ship, for instance. It is a big, tubby merchantman that I will not dignify by naming it a proper brig. However, having three masts, with all sails square, I must call it a ship. Ship though it may be, it is certainly a seagoing wreck—sloppy and ill-kempt and an affront to any Royal Navy sailor's eye.
I note there are belaying pins sitting in holes drilled into the rails, as they should be, while others are just lying about the scuppers. There is the usual bunch of cutlasses chained about the foot of the foremast, as well. I note, too, the discontented, surly crew—I am sure they live only for their nightly pint of grog. I have heard no cheerful singing from them in the below decks, only the clanking of chains and the moans of the damned. It seems that only Napper, Vance, and the Weasel enjoy their work.
I am reminded daily of Dante's Inferno, and his various levels of hell. After some reflection, I put this particular hell at about level five. That time I spent in Pittsburgh's foulest prison in the rather dubious company of Mike Fink, which I had thought at the time was the worst of possible fates, pales beside this, and rates only a three, I believe. Actually, when I think of Sergeant Napper and Corporal Vance, I recall with some fondness the very large and very hairy Mr. Fink, King of the River, and our mutual acquaintance. He did, after all, wholeheartedly offer me his friendship—Love her up good, boy, 'fore I come down and mess her up for good and ever, for the stealin of my boat. After she's down at the bottom of the river with an anchor chain wrapped round her neck, maybe you and me'll bring my boat back upriver. Haul some cargo, buy us a coupla fancy ladies, have us a time. Whadya say, boy?—and, I must admit, except for the prospect of your sad demise, a life on that river does not seem such a bad idea right now. It's the only life for a man and you know it to be true. Perhaps Mike was right ... But I digress...
Now, the escort ship, which lies off our port side, that is another story altogether. It is a trim, well-maintained brig, sailed tightly in true Bristol fashion. It is Royal Navy, and looks it.
When on exercise drill, I find that Second Mate Travis Hollister often falls into step next to me for some conversation. At first I was surprised at that, but then I realized the cause—he and I are the only former Royal Navy officers on-board and the poor man must have lacked for nautical conversation, or intelligent conversation of any kind. Not that I have much to offer in that regard, but still.
It was he who told me something of HMS Dart, our well-armede scort.
"As you can see, she is a's loop-of-war, and is commanded by a Captain Adam Varga," he says. "They seem well turned out."
"The other officers?" I ask, thinking I might know some of them.
"I do not know."
"You do not go over to dine, sometimes? Is there not some common naval courtesy?"
"No, it's plain they hold us in the greatest contempt."
"Not you, too, surely?"
"They do not even know I am here."
I reflect that it must be difficult for him—to have gained his hard-won lieutenancy in the Royal Navy, served honorably, then not being able to secure a berth after Trafalgar, when Boney's fleet was destroyed with the help of such as he. It is ironic—you risk your life to save your country, and when you are successful, you find yourself out of a job.
I have thought and thought of ways of escape, but have so far come up with nothing. I lie back on my bench and muse on that.
Now, what would you do, Jacky? You who have escaped confinement so many times? Hmmm. Well, I imagine that first you would begin to charm your guards, right? Appeal to their male vanity, appeal to whatever protective nature might dwell in their bosom for a poor little girl so cruelly treated? Would you softly sing songs that remind them of their homeland and sisters and daughters so far away? Oh, yes, you would. Songs sung so softly and with such feeling that they would be lulled into reverie and sweet remembrance and inattention to their duty.
I fear, however, that Sergeant Napper and Corporal Vance would be somewhat immune to my charms in that way. My charms, yes ... but maybe not the allure of some others. I have noticed during our exercise outside on deck that the eyes of the two brutes very often fall upon young Daniel Connolly, and then slide knowingly to each other's. I have seen sly smiles and nods pass between them.
You are shocked by that? Yes, well might you be, being a young girl and not exposed to such odious things, but such deviant lusts do dwell in the br**sts of certain men. Connolly is an angelic-looking boy, well- formed, with curly brown hair and downy cheeks, hardly sixteen. He has not yet had his first shave. Although I shrink from such thoughts, I realize I must not, as I must use every device we can conceive of to triumph over our jailers. I would do you no good in the penal colony, Jacky, as a chained and dispirited convict.
However, we must have weapons, and sharp and deadly they must be. But we do not have them now, so we must wait until we can lay our hands upon such things.
In the dead of night, we whisper and plan. The lads speak of trustable cons who are also able seamen. Each of them reels off a short list of names:
"Matthews, Burke, Stackpole, all in third cell ... They're all right..."
"And Hubbard and Elfstrom in the bottom crew. And Meehan, too. He's from Galway ... He's solid..."
And so on ... to the actual plans for the mutiny.
"We must get them through that door, and off their guard"
"How can we do that? They are very leery of us."
"I think I know how, but we must be patient ... We must have weapons, and can do nothing till we get them."
"You noticed the cutlasses chained about the mainmast?"
"Aye."
"Napper will have the key to that on the chain he wears around his fat gut."
"Right. We'll have to get at that when the time comes."
"The Weasel will be easy ... but Napper and Vance will not."
"Awful cozy with that Second Mate, ain't-cha, Captain?"
"He is a good source of information, McBride. And don't forget, if we succeed in taking over this ship, we've still got the Dart to contend with. She could blow us out of the water in a minute, and she is—"
There is a sudden rattling of a club against the bars of our cage.
"Awright, you scum, what youse whisperin' about in there?"
"Nothin', Corporal dear," pipes up Padraic Delaney. "Just saying our prayers is all, just like any good little Catholic boys. Come, lads, join me. 'Hail Mary, Full of grace, The Lord is with Thee, Blessed art Thou..."
"Well, knock it off," growls Corporal Vance. "Bad enough we gotta haul stinkin' micks around w'out havin' to listen't' papist claptrap, too."
The men quiet down, but they are not done—not with me, anyway.
Presently McBride pipes up. "Will ye be tellin' us a joke now, Captain Fletcher, to be improvin' the morale of your present troops?"
"I'm not in the mood, McBride," I growl—plus I'm just not good at that sort of thing.
"Well, I'll be tellin' one then, Sir."
"Tell it, Arthur," urges another voice in the gloom.
"I shall, Daniel, I shall," says Arthur McBride, and he begins.
"One fine day last year as I was walking along a path in sweet County Cork, I happened upon a sleeping leprechaun, and I quickly snatched the little bugger up, you may be sure.
" 'Och,' says he, rubbin' his eyes, 'I guess ye've caught me good and proper, and now ye'll get yer three wishes. But I gotta tell you, lad, that I'm a special kind of leprechaun, in that when I grant you a wish, yer worst enemy will get twice what ye wish for. Do ye understand?'
" 'I do,' I replied.
"'All right, so what'll yer wishes be, boy-o?'
"Well, I think for a bit, and then I say, 'First, I'd like a million pounds sterling.'
" 'It is granted,' says the little green fellow. 'But ye do know that yer worst enemy, Mr. James Fletcher, will get two million pounds?'
"'That's all right,' I says. ' 'Tis hard, but I can live with that.'
" 'All right, done. What's next? Hurry up, I'm a busy elf.'
"'Now I'd like to have the renowned Miss Jacky Faber stripped down to her natural lovely self and put next to me in my bed, so that I might sample all of her lovely charms, at my leisure, for a whole week.'"
Uh-oh ... low chuckles all around. I should have expected something like this.
" 'That means that this Mr. Fletcher will have the delightful girl bouncin' in his bed for two whole weeks? Disgustin' to think about, but so be it,' I says firmly.
"'Done,' says the leprechaun. 'Now, what's yer last wish to be, knowin' as you do that Mr. James Fletcher will get twice what ye get?'
" 'Now,' I says, secure in my resolve, 'I wants you to cut off one of me balls...' "
Great guffaws all around. Grrrr...
I will get him, count on it, Jacky...
Jaimy
Chapter 32
Madeira was indeed a pearl. I've traveled around some in this world, but never have I been in a more beautiful place—soaring cliffs, blue water and crashing surf, hanging gardens that assault the senses with their heady perfumes, and acres upon acres of the finest grapes. Porto Santos, too, was lovely in the extreme, and farther down, several hundred miles off the coast of Africa, there were the Cape Verde Islands, yet another of the ocean's jewels.
I, of course, did not get to see much of these fine Portuguese ports, being underwater most of the time, diving for coins. The sailors on the nearby ships were generous, and I did well. It is profitable work, and I find it great fun. Plus I got to practice my Spanish, as the Portuguese tongue is very similar.
"Hola, marineros! Tiren sus monedas en el agua, y para su placer, me zambullire para ellas," I call out from the dock, bouncing on my toes, my bathing suit bottom hiked up as far as modesty permits, and the coins do come raining down.
The Captain had put into those ports on the pretext of taking on fresh supplies—anyway, that is how he entered them in his logbook, Assistant Purser Higgins reports, but methinks the Captain did not so much desire oranges, lemons, fresh water, and such, as much as he wanted his good, honest graft—his twenty percent skim off the top of the Crews' take. He wanted to let loose his very accomplished female Crews on the male populations contained on these island paradises—and hey, what's a Paradise without a few hundred comely Eves? This journey might very well make our Captain Laughton very rich. I sense that he is certainly in no hurry to get to his final destination. And why kick a winning horse? ask I, in total agreement, as I'm not in such a hurry to get there, either.
We did, however, bring aboard many baskets full of the local rapes—and many barrels of the local wine.
The three madams dutifully handed over their tithes, and we departed for the Cape of Good Hope, the southern tip of the Continent of Africa. Yes, I had to hand over some, too. The Captain is no dummy, and what's sauce for the Lizzies, the Judies, and the Tartans, is sauce for us Newgaters, too.
About a week later, the Lorelei Lee ran into a bit of a problem. The Captain had put her in close to the African shore to take on water from the mouth of a river that had been spotted there. The water had been hauled aboard, and we were ready to resume our course to the Cape. Mairead, Molly, and I were lolling about the foretop, our stint at the washtubs over for now, when I heard the call from below.