At the height of the cyclone, I'd gone back on deck, in the lashing wind and rain, to help where I could. There I spied Enoch Lightner, the Shantyman, one arm around the mainmast and the other held high, his sightless eyes on the heaving sea, yelling.
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow!
You Cataracts and Hurricanos, Spout!
Mairead, who had come up by my side in this malestrom, shouted, "What makes him go on so?"
And I shouted back into the wind, "He may be blind, but he is still a sailor, and he is still a man. He'd rather die out here in the open than down below, trapped like a rat! Come, let's get him!"
She and I, with ropes secured about our waists, approached him and tried to talk him down. He would not listen to me, but he did listen to her. I have noticed that they have become quite close in the last few weeks. After the singing and the laughter in the Captain's cabin has died down of an evening, I often find her at his side, holding his hand and listening to his stories.
"Enoch! Please! Come down!" she pleaded, reaching out to him, rain streaming down her face. He continued to roar, shaking his fist at the wind.
Blow winds! Spout!
Till you have drench'd our steeples, drowned the cocks!
Singe my white head!
At last, grasping at his hands and placing them on her heaving breast, she coaxed him below.
Meanwhile, at Assistant Purser Higgins's suggestion, we have made a darling little white turban for Ravi, to go with a nice white shirt and blousy trousers. He looks absolutely smashing. All my girls are madly in love with him. He gets many hugs and kisses and pronounces himself to be in a place called Nirvana. We are thinking of getting him some white slippers with turned-up toes. Before his debut in the Captain's cabin, I put my thumb in my pot of red watercolor and smudge a dot of the color on his forehead, just between his eyes. He protests—"No, no, Missy Memsahib, you cannot! Wrong caste! Is mark of Brahmin, not Untouchable!"—I am, however, unmoved by that. "You'll be whatever caste I tell you, Ravi. Consider it a promotion, you little twit! Hold still!"
When we first had sent him in to wait upon Captain Laughton, bearing a small tray upon which rested a glass of Madeira, the Captain, upon seeing him standing there trembling in that outrageous costume, burst into gales of laughter, exclaiming, "Ha! Makes me feel just like a heathen Maharajah, by God! Capital! Oh, just capital!"
Ravi puts up with the trousers but refuses to wear the shirt, except when he's waiting on the Captain. I can't blame him—all the crew and half the officers go about shirtless because of the heat. Most of the girls, the younger ones, anyway, have dispensed with their heavy dresses and go about in drawers and chemise.
It's all right, though, for everyone seems to have settled down with mates. I have succeeded in getting Maggie and the shy Keefe together as much as possible, and that seems to be working out.
Cookie continues to take his pleasure where he finds it—t rading favors from his kitchen for favors of another kind; but he seems content to spend most of his time in his galley with Jezebel, and Mick and Keefe, along with my gang and me on occasion. I do not allow any men into the Newgaters' quarters, so Cookie's kitchen has become sort of an informal meeting place for mixed company. Club Cookie it has come to be called, and Cookie rules his smoky kingdom of pots and pans and stove with an iron hand, similar to mine, and only a select few are admitted to his realm—a good policy lest some of the bawds get even fatter than they already are, as Cookie is a very good cook.
Mick is still with Isabella Manson, and he has expressed some resentment over the use of his Bella by other men when we are in a port of call.
"I knows they's all whores, but I don't know if I likes the idea of them other swabs gettin' on our girls. 'Specially, my Bella..." he was sayin' as we were hanging about the Club yesterday.
"Well, that is her profession, Mick," I point out. "You ain't the first one to amble down Bella's path, so to speak."
"I know, I know, but still, it causes me some ... I dunno ... some ... unease."
Men, they always want it both ways. They want what the girls got and yet they want them to be good at the same time. I swear...
Some of the unattached women have made other ... arangements. Most of the cabins are now occupied, and the Captain is most appreciative of the rents. Love lives in many guises on the Lorelei Lee.
Ravi, aside from being the Captain's cup bearer and the darling of the ship, is also my arrow bearer—he holds my arrows for me when I am hunting rats in the bilges, and retrieves the arrows when I miss. He also holds a lantern up high so I can see the little buggers when they poke their noses out of their holes. While we lie there in the semidarkness, waiting for a target, I regale him with tales of the Great and Terrible Katy Deere, Archer Supreme and the Bane of All Rats, with Her Fearsome Cohort of Deadly Dianas. I know he objects to this killing and trembles when he prays over each bloody body—"Consider, Missy, that you might come back as such a mousie." He is a very religious little boy and some of my so-called Puritan friends could take notice. But he does what he is told, even though he worries over my karma, as well he should, as it generally does need some serious tending.
The millers, as we sailors call 'em, are much appreciated in Club Cookie, and some have already graced the Captain's table—good fresh meat was very scarce in Bombay.
Another of Ravi's tasks is to look after Mr. Gibson's monkey, who has been named Josephine, after the Empress Josephine, Napoleon Bonaparte's wife. I suppose it's a mock upon both of them. I, who have actually met the Empress Josephine, think it's rather mean, as she had been very gracious to this sous-lieutenant, Jacqueline Bouvier, a mere messenger, when I had delivered to her the news of Napoleon's victory at Jena-Auerstädt.
***
After the excitement and terror of the storm, things settle back into their usual tedium—school, laundry, scrubbing of decks, and so on and on and on. To liven up the routine, I have, to Higgins's great dismay, restaged the little playlet I had written when Higgins and I were on the Mississippi, "The Villain Pursues Constant Maiden, or Fair Virtue in Peril." Higgins sighs and offers it up and is a good sport in reprising his role as narrator of the grand epic. Mr. Gibson plays Captain Noble Strongheart, the hero, and I, of course, play Prudence Goodheart, the virtuous her**ne. Mr. Seabrook does an excellent job as the Villain, Banker Morgan, while the Captain graciously consented to act as my father, Colonel Goodheart. Consented? Nay, the dear old ham demanded to be included as part of the cast, bellowing out his part with great gusto.
Ship's Boy Harry Quist reluctantly plays the sickly Timothy Goodheart. He had to be bribed.
A dress was again constructed with weak seams, to be ripped off my quivering form by the lustful Banker Morgan. There was a great roar from the assembly as that dress was torn off, leaving me cowering in my chemise and drawers—always a high point in these productions.
All enjoyed our little drama, with hisses and boos and catcalls at the villain, cheers for the hero, gasps when my dress comes off, and calls of "Get the snotty little bitch. Do her up good!" from the likes of Barnsley and Crew.
And so life goes on. The hours turn into days, the days turn into weeks, and all the while, the sun blazes and the waves roll as the Lorelei Lee plows on and on through the wine-darksea.
Chapter 43
"Fight!"
I'm lounging about up in the foretop with Ravi and Josephine, feeding her little bits of johnnycake from my fingertips, when I hear the fuss below.
I pop my head over the edge and look down. Violetta Atkins and Jane Wheelden have squared off against each other. Since I have recently started up a chorus, picking the best voices from all three Crews, I've become friendly with some of the members, so I know this Janey, who is a Tartan. She's a pretty good sort of person.
"You keep yer dirty hands off my Willie or I'll tear every hair outta yer filthy head, ya little slut!"
Christ! Fightin over a man, of course...
"Oo are ye callin' a slut, now, ya bloody piece o' baggage!"
I can tell this ain't gonna be no simple exchange of curses, slurs, and threats. No, this is gonna be a screeching, hair-pulling, face-scratching, all-outb rawl.
"Baggage, am I? Take this!"
Sure enough, the battle heats up.
I fly down to the deck and throw myself between the two combatants, both of whom have their fists clenched around the hair of the other, snarling.
"Stop it, you two! Right now!" I cry, putting a stiff arm on each chest and forcing them apart. "You'll be whipped!"
My restraining arms notwithstanding, the fight goes on, each girl glaring into the enraged eyes of the other. My feet lose purchase and we all collapse into a heap on the deck, fists and fingernails still inflicting damage.
"Please, girls! This is against the rules!" I gasp from underneath the heaving bulk of the two."You'll be punished!"
Turns out they ain't the only ones to be punished.
Uh-oh...
First Mate Ruger has appeared on the battleground. With a certain amount of dread, I look over at his shiny boots standing within an inch of my nose.
"Bo'sun! Tear them apart and then bring them up before me on the quarterdeck! All three!" he roars.
I feel Bo'sun Roberts's hand clamp around my neck as I am put to my feet and dragged up before the one man on this ship who I know for certain bears me no goodwill.
"Fighting is not allowed on this ship!" Mr. Ruger roars. "You know the penalty!"
Janey, who stands on my right and who has obviously gotten the worst from the fight, says nothing, but only sucks in her breath in great gasps. Violetta, hauled up on my left, looks defiant. She has felt the rod before and does not fear it. But then her look of defiance fades as she hears Ruger's next words.
"It is apparent that a mere application of the rod is not sufficient to prevent this sort of altercation, as it has been tried in the past and been found wanting."
He pauses, peering down upon us with some satisfaction, as if he has been waiting for such a moment. Then he continues.
"Therefore, we must choose an alternate form of punishment. Bo'sun Roberts, rig up the dunking stool! Each shall get ten seconds under!"
"What? What does he mean?" gasps Janey.
"It means we are to get very wet, dear," I say.
There is a bustle of activity as the Bo'sun's Mate prepares the apparatus. A chair is taken and ropes are attached to it such that it can be hoisted on the end of a line that is fed through a winch, and then swung over the side and lowered. It is the kind of gear used when a sailor must work at a repair to the ship's hull when under way—a Bo'sun's Chair, it is sometimes called. That will not be the use to which this chair will be put today.
"What are they doing, Jacky?" asks the now quite subdued Violetta.
"We are to be dunked in the water, dear," I say.
Violetta makes a mewling sound, echoed by Jane. Both grab at my arms.
Had I any clothing on other than the light shirt and trousers of my Powder Monkey rig, I would be shedding it right now, but I do not. Oh, well, doesn't matter. Everything dries real fast in this heat, and I will, too. I stand and wait.
All this noise rouses Captain Laughton from his afternoon nap and he lumbers out on deck, rather grumpy, it appears.