In spite of the near riot, we are taken up on deck for exercise. As we shuffle along, I look out on the horizon and see nothing.
The Dart is gone!
"Yes," says Second Mate Hollister, seeing me look around for the escort. "She is detached for three days—back to Singapore on some diplomatic nonsense. We have shortened sail so as to poke along until such time as she catches back up with us. Believe me, I do not like it."
So, it must be done now, while the ship is defenseless!
Later, we measure out the rope and find that we can apportion a bit more than two feet to every unarmed man—that being five of them, me having the shiv and Sean Duggan having the club. Each man wears his cord wrapped around his waist, waiting for the proper time—three and a half feet long with a good thick knot at each end. True, the garrote is a nasty weapon, but it is effective, and it is silent. A man may cry out if a dagger is thrust in his side, but no one cries out when in the hideous choking embrace of El Garrote.
"You know what to do," I whisper in the night. "One loop around the neck and then tighten with all your might. Clamp your knees about them as they stuggle but do not let them go till they go limp. Remember, very few of this crew has ever shown us a bit of kindness of any sort—it has all been kicks and curses and being treated like animals. Keep that in mind. Do not let the better angels of your natures rule. We must harden our hearts, else we be lost."
"My heart is hard as any stone, Fletcher, believe it," mutters McBride.
"So say you one, so say you all?"
There are grunts of agreement in the gloom.
"Very well, the die is cast. The escort ship is gone but will be back soon, so we must go tomorrow night after the watch changes at midnight. The men will be groggy from their beds and not paying much attention to things. We will either succeed or we will be hanged. So be it. Better an honorable death at the end of a rope than a lifetime of misery and shame."
The lads fall silent, but McBride is not yet done with me.
"That other convict ship, now, the one that had Ian's Mairead and our Jacky on it ... Did you hear her Captain call our Jacky Mrs. Higgins? Did you hear that, now, Fletcher?"
Yes, I did ... through all my pain, I did hear that...
"Come on, Arthur," says Ian. "We don't need this."
I calm myself and reply to the bastard. "I know John Higgins to be an honorable man. If she has married him, then so be it. Somehow I am not worried. I care more for her safety than for any other ... insinuations ... you might have, McBride. So how about keeping your thoughts to yourself?"
I hear him chuckle in the darkness. "Could it be that your little sparrow is sleeping in another's nest?"
"Believe me, McBride," I hiss. "When this is all over, we shall settle up our accounts."
"Fine with me, Brit. When the time comes, bring it on."
Oh, I will, mick. I will...
Our plan is laid and we are ready to go.
Wish us luck,
Jaimy
Chapter 50
Things are not good on the Lorelei Lee.
Ruger wastes no time in moving into my old cabin and assuming his place at the head of the table. In the beginning of the new regime, we have some music, but our hearts are not in it. When Captain Laughton left us, he took much of our joy with him, for he was the true Master of Revels, not me.
Ruger uses his new position as Captain to drink even more than he had previously, now being unconfined by any authority, and he is not a jolly drunk.
He hurls insults freely at those at dinner, gets sloppy with food, and spills drinks, and then blames Higgins for it. When Mairead and I sing and play, he cuts us off in mid song—"Goddamn noise! Be quiet! Stupid drivel!" Fewer and fewer people are invited to dinner and none really care to join. One night the Shantyman is missing—whether by his choice or Ruger's I don't know. Mairead and I exchange glances. We do not like this. What we like even less is that Enoch never again appears in the cabin.
Aside from a constantly changing girl from the Crews, who sits cringing by his side, the only two who are always there are Mairead and I, and we are there on his demand. After Higgins serves dinner, he is most often sent away so that Ruger can engage us more closely in conversation.
This night, Mr. Gibson is here, and not looking very happy. At Ruger's side is Mary Ann Anstey, a Judy. She doesn't look very happy, either.
I play quietly on my guitar and avoid Ruger's gaze.
It does me no good. After Higgins is sent away, Ruger calls me to him. I lay aside my guitar to go stand beside him. He points to the bed.
"You will stay here this night."
"I will not. I am a woman joined in marriage to my good husband, John Higgins, and I will neither disgrace him nor my vows by lying with you."
"We all know that marriage to be a sham."
"Do you, now? And how do you know that? Do you lie abed with us? Or do you listen outside our door, giggling in some vile perversion of true manhood? Do you?"
"Beware of mocking me, girl," he hisses, rising unsteadily to his feet. "It is a sham, I say."
"It is not a sham to me, Sir, and I mean to keep to my vows. If you force me, it will be rape, and the crime will be on your head. And believe me, the Company will hear of it."
"The Company? What do you think the Company cares about a condemned convict? It cares ten pounds six is what it cares!"
"Best kill me after you have had your way with me, then, for I will have justice."
His face contorts into a mask of drunken rage. He sweeps his hand across the table, scattering dishes and wineglasses to the floor.
"Get out of my sight," he snarls. Then he brings his hand up and catches me with the back of it. I cry out and fall back.
At my cry, the door swings open and Higgins is there, looking murderously at Ruger.
"Please, Sir! Forbear!"
Ruger is fairly foaming with rage.
"Get out! All of you leeches!" he roars. "Get out of my sight! Drink up someone else's wine! Get out!"
As the sorry company flees, I look back in the cabin and see that he has thrown Mary Ann onto the bed. Though you'd think women in her profession would be used to such things, the poor girl looks scared and beseeches me with terrified eyes. I am profoundly sorry that I cannot help her. But just you wait, you...
When I see Mary Ann the next day, her cheek is bruised and her left eye is swollen shut.
Mrs. Berry is mad, and even though she is not as outspoken as Mrs. Barnsley, nor as fierce as Mrs. MacDonald, the Madam of the Judies speaks up for her Mary Ann. She huffs up in indignation and faces Ruger from the main deck as he stands on his quarterdeck.
"Sir, please be more gentle in the handling of our girls, as they do not do well in suffering under such treatment as Mary Ann has received from your very hands."
He looks down on her with great disdain.
"Shut yer mouth, whoremonger. Do not ever forget that you are all nothing but convicts and subject to whatever punishment I deem necessary for the good order of this ship!" He jumps down to the deck, thrusts out the heel of his hand, and pushes her down.
"Oh! Please, Sir, I am but an old woman!" she cries, on her back with her skirts all ahoo.
"This is my ship now, and you will observe that proper discipline is being restored to this ship. No more foolishness. Holiday routine on Saturdays and Sundays is hereby canceled till every soul on this ship shows me proper respect! Every soul."
Here he casts his eye upon me, who sits in the foretop with Mairead.
"Every soul," he repeats. "And every body, too."
Things do not look good for us, be we Newgater, Judy, Lizzie, or Tartan.
Chapter 51
James Fletcher
Convict
Onboard Cerberus
Jacky,
There seems to be a bit of a celebration topside—apparently it is Captain Griswold's birthday, so an extra pint of rum has been issued to all hands. None was given to us convicts to drink to the Captain's health, oh no, but we wouldn't want to do that, anyway, as his good health is the last thing we would wish for that evil bastard. But I see this working in our favor, as the crew will be more groggy than usual and will sleep soundly. Tonight we go.
The bell rings eight chimes in the dark of night. We stir as we hear the sounds of the changing watch. The time grows near...
The Weasel comes by for his nightly round, and we know that Sergeant Napper and Corporal Vance will not be far behind. It's time...
" 'Avin' a good evenin', scum?" the Weasel asks, rattling his club on the bars. "Sleepin' well, Mr. Fletcher?" He seems to be feeling rather good from his extra ration of rum.
I keep my eye on the pair of brass keys that hangs at his waist. He is not trusted with much, but he does have those—one key to open the gate, and the other to release our long, common ankle chain from its mooring, such that he can lead us shuffling on our morning visit to the head, and thence to the mess deck to be issued our slops. It's Napper and Vance who hold the keys to our shackles ... and to the cutlass rack. We must have all of those keys, else we are lost.
As planned, Padraic starts it up.
"I read a book once, Weasel," he says. "And you was in it."
"Wot? Wot book?"
"It was a book about the HMS Wolverine when our Jacky Faber and your own worthless self was on it. It was called Under the Jolly Roger."
"So?"
"It was a good book. You should read it ... iffen you can read, which I doubt."
"So what? 'Oo cares?"
"Oh, we don't, Weasel, believe me," says Ian, picking it up. "We don't care if you lives or dies—in fact, we hope you does die—but others might care..."
"Why?"
"'Cause there's a bit in there about how you liked smellin' girls' underpants, Weasel." Ian pauses. "How once when Jacky give you her clothes for cleaning, expectin' you to perform your duties like a proper steward, you took her knickers and charged blokes a penny to handle 'em ... sniff 'em and stuff."
"That never happened! Lies! All lies!" cries the Weasel, pounding on the bars. The glow he felt from his extra pint seems to have worn off.
Open the door, Weasel...
"Oh? Sorry ... you didn't know? Yes, you've gone right famous—the whole fleet knows about that. Do you really like that sort of thing, now, Weasel?" continues Padraic, relentlessly. "I, myself, have never been interested in that sort of thing, so's I wouldn't know. Sounds rather disgusting to me, actually, but there's no accounting for taste, is there?"
"You stop now, or you'll get it!"
Open the door, Weasel...
"What's it like? I heard our lass once dumped a full chamber pot over your head, too. How did you like the smell o' that? Pretty rich stuff, I suspect ... eh?"
Open the door, Weasel...
"Stop it! Stop it!"
Open the door, Weasel...
But Padraic Delaney does not stop. He is his father's son, after all...
"I hear they call you 'Knickers Weisling, the Pride of the Perverted Patrol.' There's even a song about it. It's quite the rage in London. Want to hear it?"
"No! Stop! I'll get you!"
Open the door, Weasel...
Padraic Delaney lifts his voice and sings.