As if on cue from the stage of one of Mr. Fennel's and Mr. Bean's theatrical productions in Boston comes word from above...
"Bag down."
There are eight fat millers in this batch. We whisper the news of the upcoming feast from girl to girl, and thirty-two tin cups are brought down and placed in a row. I pull the first cork and pass it to Lissette. She sniffs it and her eyes roll back and she nods and sticks the red end of it in her mouth and sucks on it. Ummmm... Funny how that word is the same in both French and English—or any language, for that matter. I've even heard dogs use it to express joy and contentment.
I pour a bit into each cup till the bottle is empty and then do the next bottle—it's a Burgundy, but I don't think the girls will mind the blend. Finally the last, another Côte du Rhône, and each girl has almost three ounces in her cup.
There is yet another treat: I had gone out last night for just a short run across to the other storeroom in the lower passageway, the one that held the ship's basic foodstuffs. I felt around in the darkness and found what I suspected was a tin of soda crackers and brought it back with me. I was right in my suspicion. We'll take some of these with us in the boat, if we can, so there will be something in the way of food—I hadn't yet figured out a way to carry water, though, and that had worried me, but not anymore.
I retrieve the tin from the hidey-hole and count out two crackers for each girl and place them beside each cup. There are six girls on watch—one at the gate, one at the edge of the Stage, and four lookouts on the Balcony. Their shares are put aside till they are relieved.
I replace the tin in the hiding spot and put the empty bottles there as well. Dolley has my shiv and has cut up the millers into small parts. Many of the girls now partake of the nearly daily feast.
"All right, now," I say, then hands reach out and soon nothing is heard except gasps of ecstasy over the fine wine and the common crackers and the crispy, crackly miller meat.
I take a sip of my wine and let it sit on my tongue for a while before swallowing, my eyes closed. Oh, joy... I let out a small moan and have a bite of cracker and another tiny sip. Ummmm. I snare a choice miller back leg and make short work of that. I know my sisters would agree with me that this is truly the very finest of feasts.
Pausing in the glory of my gluttony, I notice Constance Howell kneeling and holding her cup and looking in at its contents. I can see that she is struggling with herself.
"Go ahead and drink it, Connie. God hasn't put that wine before you to tempt you. He has given it to you to sustain you," I say to her. "Consider it a sacrament, 'cause that's what it is."
I'm thinkin' of bolstering this argument by reminding her that Jesus, His Own Holy Self, had poured a good deal of the fruit of the vine down His Own Holy Neck during His tour of duty on Earth, and even changed some water into wine to make up for a lack of it one time—at a wedding, I think it was.
But I don't have to. She takes a sip, then gets up, collecting her crackers and the cup and crackers next to hers. I know they are for Elspeth and I thank her for it, silently, of course, for I know that Connie Howell doesn't want to hear anything in the way of moral guidance from Jacky Faber, that's for sure.
The luncheon is finished. We ate and drank in a leisurely way, at the same time knowing, however, that if we heard a Lord, save us! from above, we would have had to dump everything in the necessary tub to escape detection, but it didn't happen. We cleaned up, disposed of the few bones not chewed up and swallowed, and got down to the work of the day.
In addition to the ongoing classes in French, Dance, Science, and Chorus, there is now a class in Fundamentals of Sailing, conducted by the Misses Catherine Lowell and Hyacinth Saltonstall, the two girls who have actually sailed a small boat before. I keep my nose out of it, listening only for any dangerous falsehoods, but there are none. The girls come down in groups of six to receive instruction. I have given Cathy and Hyacinth pencils and some pieces of paper and they have faithfully drawn diagrams as to the various "points of sail" and they carefully describe how the sails are set depending on how the wind is coming at the boat. Everybody knows this backing up of skills is in case anyone, me or Cathy or Hyacinth, is knocked out of action, so that others will be able to take over the navigating of the boat. It's not often mentioned, but casualties can be expected when we make our break for freedom.
The only time I interrupt the Sailing sessions is to give some pointers on rough-water sailing, as I know neither Cathy nor Hyacinth has experienced that: You've got to take the seas on either side of your bow, or either side of your stern, but not direct on. If you go direct on to a wave with your bow, it'll dive down under it and you'll take on water. If you let a high wave take you directly astern, you'll be swamped. If you are swamped, do not panic, as panic is your most fearsome enemy. First, drop the sails ... then everybody get out of the boat and cling to the sides—the boat will still float—and start bailing with the cracker tins we will have in the boat till the gunwales come out of the water. It will be discouraging work and you will despair of success, but it can be done. When the water level is down far enough, one by one you can get back in the boat to help bail. Got it? They have it.
So while the pounding of the heels overhead in the Dance class continues, so does Katy's work with the bows. After today's hunt, she has taken the battens I got the other day and glued one each inside the five bows already made, and set them aside to dry, making them twice as thick as they were before. Twice as thick and twice as strong. "The others were all right for the rats," she says to me, "but for killin' men, we're gonna need stronger." I don't dispute it.
I look back as I leave Katy and her girls at their work, there under the cover of the Stage. Chrissy, Hermione, Minerva, and Rose have bonded into a tight-knit group centered about the solemn Katy. They took my shiv and cut their drawers off short and now roll them up to the tops of their thighs for better ease of movement. They wear headbands of the white cloth, the tied ends of which have been dipped in blood, whether rat's blood or their own is not known. They have taken to keeping to themselves when not on some duty. They squat in a circle and speak low, if at all. Who knows what vows have been taken and sworn.
I gaze about me at all the instruction and industry that is going on and reflect that we have a full curriculum, and I think Mistress would be proud.
Enough of idle speculation. Back to work, you.
With the help of Sylvie and Judy, I take down the safety boards covering the Powder Hole. Again, I reach into the darkness to feel about. There're the bottles, and there are a lot of them—probably piled all the way out to the door that's locked on the other side. That's good, 'cause what we take from this end will not be missed, and if it is, it'll likely be blamed on some hapless sailor. I can't get in any farther.
"Here," I say, "let's take down some of the bags from the top. Maybe I can crawl over them."
We do it, ever mindful of a Lord, save us! from above. When four bags are out and stacked, I again try to crawl over the top of the piled bags in the powder magazine, and I manage to do it. But what my questing fingers find is more bags and more bottles, and nothing more—not what I was looking for, at any rate. I crawl back out and spy Dorothea Baxter.
Sylvie and Judy put back the boards as I take Dorothea aside.
"Go get Ruthie and meet me back down here." Mystified, she goes and does it. Ruth Alden soon ducks under the Stage with Dorothea by her side.
"There're no fuses in there. We'll have to make our own," I explain. "We'll keep one bag of powder in the hidey-hole. Ruth, you're our best with the needle—we'll need a long, thin tube made of petticoat cloth, tied off at regular intervals, like a long sausage, only instead of meat inside, there will be powder. Dorothea, you'll need to experiment to see how fast each segment of our fuse will burn—try to get it to one second each. I figure it'll take one hundred seconds from when the last girl goes through the Rat Hole till we get everyone in the boat and the situation on deck dealt with. Got it?"
Ruth nods, secure in the knowledge of her skill, but Dorothea asks, "What of the smell of the burning powder? What if one of the crew gets a whiff and questions it?"
"That's why we planted that smell-of-brimstone thing in the Black Ghost story. We can blame it on that if anyone says anything."
"Ah," says Dorothea, "we'll get right on it."
"Sylvie," I say to the two at the Powder Hole. "Before you put the top board on, let's pull out a bag."
That set in motion, I go and get my seabag from its berth. I reach in and get my last pencil and my dwindling sheaf of paper and sit down on the deck under the Stage and compose a letter.
REWARD
A sum of Fifty (50) dollars American will
be Paid to the Person who finds this Bottle and
delivers it and its Contents to:
Mister Ezra Pickering
Union Street, Boston, Massachusetts, USA
My Dear Ezra:
We of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls are not dead of drowning or anything else. We were kidnapped by Bartholomew Simon, known in Boston as Mr. Harrison, and his Cohorts, for the Purpose of selling us in North Africa as Slaves. Those men should be apprehended and punished as soon as possible so they will be able to do no more evil in the world. We do not wish this sale of our Persons to happen, so we have made plans to gain our freedom.
Please do not worry about us, as all of us are well and in Good Spirits and most Hopeful. Your prayers, however, would be most welcome.
Personal notes are enclosed.
Sincerely,
The Girls of the Lawson Peabody
(Mistress Pimm's Girls)
I rip up most of my remaining sheets of precious paper into thirty-two small squares. Then I call all who are not on watch down to listen to me read this, and when I am done, I say, "Each of you will be given a scrap of paper to write a note to your families. You have the afternoon to compose your message, but since we have only a few pencils, it's important that you have your note composed before you get the pencil. Although I have quill and ink, I think it best that we write these in pencil, because moisture could seep into the bottle. We will be sending only this one bottle because of the danger in getting it to the water. I, for one, intend on beating it back to Boston."
There is a small cheer, and though I know all will set to work with joy at the prospect of communicating with their people back home, I know also that many a tear will trickle from many an eye and drop off many a nose before this particular job is done.
Well, we've had our treats today—it's about time we gave one to the crew. The lookouts have been alerted to let me know when the Captain, Dunphy, and Chubbuck are out of sight.
"Jacky," comes the call from above and I leap up into the Balcony, accompanied by fellow members of the Royal Bloodhound Theater Company. I look around at the deck and am gratified to see that there are many of the crew about—there's Keefe and Mick and a few I know to see but not to name. That's enough, I think, and give Caroline Thwackham the nod, and she starts it out, speaking just loud enough to be heard on deck, without being too obvious.
"You know, Jacky, when I was looking out through the bars yesterday, the ship took a big roll and I was able to see the water, itself..."