His eyes roll heavenward, asking, I assume, for deliverance from this pesky female. "What is it, Miss Faber?"
"Number one. Why do we not have powder to exercise the great guns? We are woefully unready."
He stiffens and says, "The Captain has not authorized the powder. It is not for you to question that."
Umm. I decide to hold my tongue on that. "Number two. As ranking Midshipman, I must insist that the midshipmen be put on the quarterdeck watch schedule. They are not learning anything just sitting around their berth." I gulp it all out. I still am not easy at speaking plain to regular officers.
Mr. Pelham eyes me coldly. "Are you implying by all this that the officers on this ship have been derelict in their duties?"
"No, Sir. I know how things lie on this ship and I have nothing but the utmost respect for both you and Mr. Pinkham, and I admire your fortitude in enduring it all. It is because of my special condition that I might have a little more latitude in the correction of some things."
Mr. Pelham looks down at me, a half smile playing about his mouth. "I'll be damned," he says. He looks off over my head. I know he has very little use for me. I know, too, he was certainly looking for a better post than this when he gained his lieutenancy—a fine ship, a fair and noble captain, a chance for glory. Instead he got this—standing on the deck of a Hell Ship commanded by a vile and sick fiend, talking to a girl. "Very well, Miss Faber, you shall draw up a Watch list for your midshipmen and it shall be added to the Quarter Bill. You, yourself, will start it off by standing the Midwatch with Gunner's Mate Smythe tonight."
I hit a brace. "Very good, Sir. While I am here, I expect to do my duty. I assume the Messenger of the Watch will be sent to waken me?"
"Oh, you may count on that, Miss Faber," he says, and turns away. I salute and turn away and go to meet Robin Raeburne at the foremast.
On the way there, Harper comes up next to me and says, "Psst! Jacky!" and pushes something into my hand. I look at it and see that it is a fine knife in a smooth leather scabbard and has a tooled leather belt with a shiny brass buckle.
"Thanks, John, but this is much too fine ..."
"Don't thank me," says Harper, "it's from Billy Barnes. He was too shy to come up and give it to you himself, to thank you for saving his life."
"Ah," I say, strapping it around my waist. It feels good there. I draw out the blade and test its edge. It is sharp as a razor. "Then thank him for me. And one more favor, John, and then I'll bother you no more: I'll be needing sea dads for the four midshipmen. Older men, well seasoned. All right?"
"Sure, Jacky, anything for an old shipmate."
***
"Let us go up to the top, Mr. Raeburne," I say when I meet him at the appointed time. Without waiting for an answer, I swing into the ratlines and head up, and he follows.
When we get up under the top, he heads for the lubber's hole and I say, "Wait. Don't do it that way. The men will think less of you for it. Do it like this." And I turn and slip under the back of the ratlines so that I am hanging sort of upside down, but so I can gain the outside edge of the fore-top platform and so slide on that way, which is considered the seamanly way to do it. Me and the other ship's boys on the Dolphin would rather be stripped bare, whipped, and keelhauled than be seen going up through the lubber's hole.
He doesn't like it, but he does it. I can see that he's a bit scared, hanging up there all precarious like that, but he gets it done. We go and sit down, him with his back to the mast, and me sitting cross-legged before him.
"There is so much I don't know," he says, miserably.
"You will learn. I will teach you what I know and we together will teach the other lads. To begin with, I have set it up so that we will be standing watches as Junior Officers of the Deck, starting with me on the Midwatch and you relieving me for the Four to Eight. We'll put the boys on a regular schedule, but I think it would be well that they split the long night watches into two-hour sessions. What do you think?"
He regards me. That wounded male hurt comes into his eyes. "You know," he says, "I was well on my way to becoming a man before I was brought here. And now a girl ..."
I get up on my knees in front of him. "Robin, I know I'm just a stupid girl, but I know some things, a lot of things, Robin, and I will teach them to you, and then you will be better than me 'cause you're a man and you're stronger and brighter and braver. But right now it's a question of circumstance and experience, and I've got lots of experience in things that I know you want to know about, and I will see that you learn them."
I see that the laying on of hands is necessary now, and I do it. I put my hands on his forearms and lift my eyes to his. "So you see, Robin, that this is the way it has to be. I must have you with me on this, else all is lost. Else I am lost, and that's the truth."
I know, I know, it is a blow to your male pride, but it will be all right, you'll see...
At the beginning of the Second Dog, Robin and I slide back down to the deck. We have some things resolved and we go into the berth for dinner. The others are there, playing at cards. They look up as we enter.
"Stand up," I say, and when they do, I continue. "Tomorrow, lads, your education as naval officers begins. Mr. Raeburne and I have the two night watches tonight, but in the morn you, Mr. Wheeler, will be the Junior Officer of the Watch for the Morning Watch, and you, Mr. Barrows, shall have the Afternoon Watch. Mr. Piggott, the First Dog. And back again to me for the Second. And so on, in never-ending rotation. Is that clear?"
They gulp and say yes, but Georgie pipes up with, "But what will we do, Miss?"
"You will do what the Officer of the Watch tells you to do. If he tells you nothing, then you will stand there at Parade Rest until he does tell you to do something."
They look uneasy and I continue. "You might tell the Officer of the Watch that I expect you to know the name of every single sail that is drawing wind tomorrow, and if you do not know that when I come on watch at six in the evening, you two will each receive two demerits and no dinner. Do you understand?"
They nod.
"Good. And at noon we will join Mr. Barrows on the quarterdeck, and I will show you how to take a sun line to determine our longitude. And then all will join me on the Second Dog to shoot Polaris for our latitude, weather permitting. In the morning Mr. Raeburne shall conduct math class for those not on watch, and I shall drill you in writing, reading, and spelling. All right?"
More nods.
"Good. One other thing. When we are here in the berth, we are Robin, Jacky, Tom, Ned, and Georgie, as we are all fellow midshipmen. But when we are on deck, we are Mister and Miss, for that is how we want the men to address us. Clear? All right then, lads, let's eat."
Just then the door is kicked open and our food arrives, borne by the same surly cook's helper who had delivered our rations before. He is a miserable looking creature, slump shouldered and chinless and not very clean. He drops the tray upon the table and goes to leave.
As he does so, I stick out my boot between his feet and trip him, such that he pitches forth, facedown on the deck.
"Wot? Wot, the hell!" he says, scrambling to his feet, full of indignation.
"Belay that," I say. He looks at me in openmouthed wonder. I put on the Lawson Peabody Look and gaze down my nose at him. "Pick up the tray and go back out and ask permission to enter." He now looks confused. "Do it, or you shall feel the Nine-Tailed Cat scratch your worthless back!" I hiss, and he jumps to his feet, takes the tray, and scurries back out.
Soon there is a scratching at the hatchway door.
"Yes," I say, as icily as I can.
"Dinner, Miss."
"You may enter."
He comes back in.
"What is your name?" I demand.
"Weisling, Miss."
"Very well, Weisling, you may serve us our dinner."
The now thoroughly cowed man enters and goes to put the tray on the table.
"No," I say. "Serve each of us our plates. From the right, if you please. Thank you."
He does it and puts a pitcher of hot tea on the table and a pint of rum in front of Robin and another in front of me. Hmmm. At least I'm to get a full ration. I pick it up and hand it back to him.
"I do not drink spirits. Take it back, please. If there is wine, I will have some. If not, I will content myself with tea. And," I say, "make sure that pint finds its way back to the Bo'sun. I will check, count on it."
He leaves, and we fall to, talking easily among ourselves of the day's events. Presently, our reluctant servant comes back in bearing a bottle of red wine. He uncorks it and pours me a glass. It is not a great vintage, but it is drinkable.
"Thank you," I say. He leaves the bottle on the table and goes out, no doubt to spread tales of my vicious nature.
"A glass of wine with you, Robin," I say, tipping the bottle over his still empty glass. "It would be better for you to help me with this, rather than to drink that, for you will have to get up for the Four to Eight."
Later, the gentle roll of the ship lulls me as I lie curled in my bed. I think: It has been two days since I got here and at least half the crew knows my name and who I am. I think I can count some as my friends, and that is good. Tomorrow I shall acquit myself in the same way. If enough are on my side, then maybe I will be all right.
Little mutinies it will have to be, if I am to be saved.
I wish I had my pennywhistle and was allowed to play it. I wish I had Amy here by my side. Or Judy. I wish I had my seabag and my paints and brushes and disks of ivory—I would do a portrait of Joshua Langley for his Rose. I would like to do that.
I know I have one portrait I will erase so I can use the ivory disk again ... no, no ... I won't do that at all. What I'll do is wrap that one in a cloth and put it away and maybe someday I'll be able to take it out and look at it again.
A line from a song comes unbidden into my mind. I wish that my love were in my arms and I lie in my bed once again.
It doesn't matter what you wish, girl. Just go to sleep. The Midwatch is a scant three hours away.
Chapter 7
James Emerson Fletcher
9 Brattle Lane
London, England
September 9, 1804
My Dear Lost Girl,
My hopes that you were merely off pouting somewhere and soon would turn up all dewy eyed and sorrowful were cruelly dashed this morning when what proved to be your servant, a Judy Miller, appeared in tears on our doorstep with your seabag under her arm.
Poor, red-nosed thing, snuffling about her mistress and how she warned her not to go off dressed like that and how she was supposed to wait till her mistress got back:
"But she never come back, Sir, no, she didn't and I fears that somethin' awful has happened to Mistress Mary, I do, Sir. And she told me to come here if she didn't come back; and she didn't come back, so here I am, Sir. Is she here, Sir?"
My heart sank for I knew that you would never leave your precious seabag, much less leave this poor girl to her own devices if you were not in some serious trouble. I told your Judy that you were, alas, not here, but I assured her we would find you and she would stay with us until we did. I eagerly questioned her about you and was thunderstruck to be told that you, yourself, had been here at my house the day before yesterday and had been turned away by my mother. Most cruelly turned away, it seems. I will give you an account of what passed that day, as scratching away with my quill keeps my mind off what you might be going through right now.