"Please remove your garments, Miss," requests the Doctor, taking off his jacket and hanging it on a hook. "And get up on the table. Sergeant, Corporal, you will both turn around and face the wall."
Tears of despair begin to pour out of my eyes, as I realize the true hopelessness of my situation. Grieving for my lost future, my lost dreams, my lost life, I begin to unbutton my vest.
It is some time later and I am again clothed, this time in my Lawson Peabody black dress that the Doctor has kindly allowed me to take from my seabag after we were done with the examination. I have also donned another of my wigs—probably the most sedate one and the one that most closely matched the color of my actual hair. A little powder here and there, my black mantilla draped around my bare shoulders, and I am ready to be paraded in front of the Captain.
"Should we bind her hands, Sir?" asks one of the Marines, after he has been allowed to turn his face from the wall.
"I don't think that will be necessary, Sergeant," answers the Doctor drily, "as she is rather small, and not very intimidating."
The Marine reddens and says, "Of course, Sir. Come along, Miss. Doctor, if you will."
The four of us troop up two more ladders and gain the upper deck. The sun is setting and I look across the sea for the Nancy B, but I do not see her. Ah, well, it is better that I do not, I suppose, as she is part of my past and not part of whatever short life that might lie before me.
The Sergeant strides across the deck and addresses the Officer of the Deck. "Beg your pardon, Sir, but the Captain ordered that she be brought up to see him when she was ... presentable."
Not spread out on a table, you mean, I snarl to myself.
Lieutenant Fleming comes down from the quarterdeck and knocks lightly on a door immediately beneath the upper deck. There is a murmur from within and Fleming says, "Sir, the girl."
More mumbles and grumbles and Mr. Fleming opens the door and Dr. Sebastian and I go in. The Marines stay outside and take positions to either side of the door.
The Captain is seated at his desk, looking through some documents. Bliffil stands next to him, and I suspect that he has supplied the Captain with those papers. I look about the cabin—its semicircle of windows facing aft, its rich woods and other appointments that so very much remind me of my own cabins on both the Wolverine and the Emerald. I heave a sigh for those lost days as I stand in front of the desk, the Lawson Peabody Look firmly in place—lips together, teeth apart, head held high as if balancing a book upon it, and eyes half hooded in a look of languid, disinterested disdain.
"So," says the Captain, continuing to peruse the sheets of paper without looking up. "Jacky Faber, Ship's Boy, HMS Dolphin, made Midshipman on same Dolphin. Discovered to be female and placed as student at the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls in Boston, expelled, reinstated. Involved in fire that burns down a good part of that same city. Member of crew of the whaler Pequod. Taken on HMS Wolverine as Midshipman by apparently insane commanding officer. Made Acting Lieutenant J. M. Faber, by same lunatic, and becomes Master and Commander of HMS Wolverine upon his death and performs in that capacity for fifteen days, and takes four prizes. Evades capture for misappropriation of Crown property, to wit: one of the four prize ships. Becomes Captain of the pirate Emerald, eventually sunk by aforementioned Wolverine. Captured and escapes yet again. And finally, involved in some mischief of late on the Mississippi River in America that caused great grief to several of our fine Intelligence Agents." The Captain picks up the papers and taps them into a neat order. "Quite a résumé. How do you plead?"
He looks up at me and is visibly shocked by my change of appearance.
"Guilty, Sir," says I, my nose in the air, "of all except the piracy charge. When I sailed on the Emerald, I carried a Letter of Marque from Lord Henry Dundas, First Lord of the Admiralty. That my own country saw fit to betray me and brand me a pirate, well, I can't say anything to that."
He looks me up and down and says nothing for a while. Then he barks out a short laugh. "Ha! Quite remarkable, I must say. No longer the Creole urchin, eh?"
Not Creole, but still an urchin, Sir.
"I do not deny my origins, Sir."
"Ahem. Well, then. Doctor, your report, please."
The surgeon, who has been calmly pouring himself a glass from the Captain's bottle of brandy, takes a sip and says, "No other weapons concealed on her person. In good health, cleanly muscled, and in excellent physical condition. About sixteen years old, as she herself maintains. Small tattoo of anchor on right iliac crest. Evidence of lower ribs having been onetime broken, making her waist appear uncommonly narrow. Scar under left eyebrow, which has caused the brow hair to grow out white. Several other scars scattered about, the two most notably being one high on the left thigh that she reports to be from a sword thrust taken while escaping from the slaver Bloodhound, and one on left buttock from a flying splinter received during an encounter with a prize on the privateer Emerald. No venereal disease or body lice, and, as a matter of fact"—and here he pauses to take another sip of the brandy before continuing—"she is virginalis intacta, if, after all that, you can believe it, Sir."
"Ummm," mutters the Captain. "Even more remarkable."
My face flares up red upon hearing this account of the examination. I don't like people poking at me and my parts if I ain't the one what invited the poking in the first place. But, even so, I must admit the Doctor was kind. He was gentle and professional, even when gently nudging my knees apart.
"Well, then, ahem," says the Captain, "I hope you will be comfortable tonight, Miss. We will discuss the terms of your confinement tomorrow."
"Thank you, Captain..." and I let it hang.
"Oh, yes," he says, slightly flustered, and rising from his chair. "Forgive me. There never is an excuse for bad manners, is there? I am Captain Hannibal Hudson, Commander of HMS Dauntless, at your service, Miss."
I deliver my deepest curtsy, and as I rise from it I look up from under my eyelashes and I say, "Thank you for your courtesy, Captain Hudson. I trust I may place the safety of both my self and my virtue in your protection during this voyage?"
"Captain, I must protest any kindness or courtesy you might be inclined to give to this female," blusters Bliffil. "I must point out—"
"What you must do, Mr. Bliffil, is be quiet," says the Captain. "You lied to me, Mr. Bliffil, and I do not like being lied to, even from an officer who is but a passenger and not part of my crew."
"Lied, Sir? I—"
"You said that when she was on the Dolphin she was the Ship's Main Pump, as it were, and physical evidence proves she was not that at all, is this not true, Mr. Bliffil?"
"But, but—," sputters Bliffil.
"You are excused, Mr. Bliffil. And, in the future, please remember who is the Captain of this ship, British Intelligence notwithstanding. And do not lie to me, ever again."
Bliffil manages a jerky bow, glares at me, and leaves the cabin.
The Captain watches him depart with an expression of deep disdain on his face and then he turns to me.
"Do not fear, Miss Faber. You will be treated civilly while you are on board the Dauntless, no matter what may be the nature of your crimes against the Crown. I bid you good night."
I bow my head in acknowledgment of this kindness. "Thank you, Sir. Good night."
"Doctor, please call in the Sergeant," says Captain Hudson.
He does it and the Marine comes in and I am taken back down to the dank brig. The door is opened and I am locked inside.
I lie down on the bench and pull up the rough blanket and give myself over to the deepest despair. As the tears begin again, I feel that I am lost this time for good and ever, that there is nothing but horror that waits for me, not Jaimy, not happiness, nothing but a hempen noose.
But, as sleep comes on, as it always does, even unto the condemned, I think I hear something whispered low from outside. This causes my eyes to open again and makes me lift my head to listen ... what? ... I could be mistaken. No, it's probably just the creak of the timbers, the chafing of the running gear, but, then ... did I really hear it?
Welcome back, Puss.
Chapter 3
Once again I wake in a cell, stiff and unhappy. I should be used to it by now, I think, groaning as I rise to meet the day. At least this brig, not being an open cage like the others I have been in, affords a little more privacy. 'Course it's very dark—the only light filtering through the bars of the door is that of the lantern hanging by the sentry. I have to feel around for the chamber pot.
After I have accomplished that, I peer through the bars and see the sentry, half asleep, leaning against the bulkhead. I have heard them change the guard every four hours through the night, just like the watches stood on deck. This latest guardsman looks as if he is profoundly seasick as well as tired, and it is not surprising, as we have been going through some rough seas. Since the jail is built as far forward as possible, we bear the brunt of the ship's heaving up and down and crashing into the heavy waves right outside the three-inch planks of its hull. The boards have been groaning and twisting and the seawater has been seeping in through the cracks and streaming down the brig walls, and as we are down in the depths of the ship, close to the bilges, it stinks, too. The dampness causes my undergarments to stick to me in a most uncomfortable way, and I know that if they keep me locked up in here for the entire voyage, a mortal sickness might well save the Crown the bother of hanging me. I wrap the soggy blanket around myself and sit back down on the bench, truly and completely miserable.
Then I hear footfalls on the upper hatchway, but I notice that the Marine does not. I shake off my misery. I have been in worse fixes than this, and if this proves to be my last predicament, then so be it. Get on with it, girl.
"Marine!" I hiss, saving him from a flogging. "Wake up! Someone's coming!"
The soldier shakes his head and snaps to, just as Bliffil comes down into the brig area.
"I am here to interrogate you," he says, and though I cannot see his face in the gloom I can hear the smile in his voice. "I have many questions."
"You go to Hell, Bliffil," I say. "I know what 'interrogation' means to an Intelligence Officer. You are here to beat me again—I remember well what you considered to be sport back on the Dolphin."
"Hmmm, we'll see about that, won't we? Private, open this door."
The guard, looking rather splendid in his scarlet jacket with the crossed white belts and the pipe-clay buttons, hits a brace and says, not too happily, "I'm sorry, Sir, but the Captain left strict orders that the door is to be opened only on his direct order. Sir."
Bliffil spins around and barks, "What? I am Lieutenant Bliffil and I order you to open that door right now or your back will pay for it!"
"I fear my Major and my Captain much more than I fear you, Sir, and I have my orders," answers the Marine, firmly.
Good for you, lad.
"Ain't so easy ordering men of real honor around, is it, Bliffil?" I sneers, getting up from the bench and putting my face to the bars. "Do the people on this ship know that you were put off the Dolphin for cowardice shown during an encounter with an enemy? Do they?"