I hear Molly Reibey sobbing behind me. Chin up, Molly, there's worse things.
Don't think about it. Enter the makeshift surgery. Hop on table, drop drawers, and pull up skirt. Most times I revel in being a girl, but sometimes I don't. A grunt from the surgeon's assistant, and I am done and back in line again.
Some of the women are given potions, some are directed toward washtubs. Mary Wade gets her head ducked into a pail of soapy water and scrubbed for head lice. Hope I didn't catch any from her, but hey, I've had 'em before.
After that fine time, a grinning sailor raises his cap and motions for us to go below. Hmmm... In a situation like this, I'm used to being thrown down into the hatchway and not treated at all nice. Maybe it's a good sign. Who knows?
We are then led into the hold and given hammocks and told where to hang them. Then we are left on our own.
"Come on, girls, follow me," I say, as I lead them through the central passageway and up onto the top level of the main hatch. "Your new home, Sisters. This is the best spot down here."
In outfitting the Lorelei, I had taken a page from my time on the Bloodhound, that vile slaver, and raised the two hatch tops eighteen inches and installed rows of open windows all around. Sturdy flaps hinged at the tops could be lowered and dogged down during rough weather or high seas. I did it so as to provide fresh air and some light to the passenger decks below. I'm powerful glad I did, too, seein' where I am now.
"Come, girls, over here. See, here's how you hang your hammock. That's it. Now pin on your badge."
One hook goes to a ring on the outer bulkhead and the other to a similar one on a heavy beam that goes all the way around the balcony, encircling the open dark hold where the stores are kept. There are three more sleeping decks below, which, though they receive air, get very little light. We're lucky to be some of the first aboard and so able to grab these berths.
"How do you know so much about this place, Jacky?" asks Maggie, who has tagged along with me and the others.
"I've been to sea before, Mag, is all, and I know how things work out on the briny," I say. "Now, in the morning, you'll take that outer hook off and put it on the bulkhead one so the hammock will hang against the wall, out of the way," I say, showing them. "Neat, eh?"
It should be, as I designed this whole setup.
That done, I go to the window and gaze out at the hubbub on deck. Mrs. Barnsley is being processed and not being at all cooperative. Now that I have seen her close up, I recognize her as one of London's reigning madams, running what was probably the biggest brothel in the city. But not anymore, she ain't. Her whorehouse wasn't far from our old kip, and Rooster Charlie and the gang would go by there sometimes to see what we could scare up in the way of food and handouts. And sometimes she would come down to our turf to scout out the orphans in our neighborhood—recruiting, like. In fact, when I was newly orphaned, at the age of seven, only to be thrown out into the mean city streets to die, the girl what stole my clothes on the Dark Day, who I later found out was named Betty, ended up at Mrs. Barnsley's. She might even be one of this bunch. If so, I do not think I shall renew her acquaintance.
Aside from running her house of ill repute, Elizabeth Barnsley had her hand in many other illegal scams. Sort of a female Fagin, she was. Hmmm ...She must have stepped on the wrong toes to end up here. Or forgot to pay the usual bribes.
After Higgins finishes with her, she goes raging and squalling into the medical inspection line, just like the others.
"Next," says Higgins. "Name."
"Rachel Hoddy, damn yer eyes!"
Badges given, and the line moves on...
Violetta Adkins ... Ann Bone ... Mary Chafey ... Elizabeth Gale ... Sarah House ... Ann Marsh...
...and on...
...Hannah Pealing ... Susannah Pickett ... Ann Poor ... Mary Talbot...
I spot a sailor standing nearby and I shout out, "Hey, Mate, when do we get under way?"
He slides his eyes over to mine, and instead of telling me to shut my gob and go to hell, he answers, in a pleasant enough voice, "Soon as they gets done loadin' this lot and Captain Laughton comes aboard."
I decide to press my luck and keep my eye out for a kick. "Is he a good captain?"
He barks out a laugh. "Good captain? Aye, girl, a sailor would kill to become one o' 'is crew, they would ... and t' get on this particular cruise"—the sailor looks out over all the girls coming aboard—"he would murder 'is own mother!"
A seaman standing next to him nods in gleeful agreement and... Good Lord, I recognize him!
I duck down so that only my eyes show above the sill. Who would have thought that, and him of all people!
It appears that all of the women have been processed, for I see that Higgins has risen from the table and, cargo manifest in hand, goes to stand by the rail. Several seamen gather up the table and chairs, to take them below. Beneath me I hear the confusion as the women are being settled in their berths. I do not envy the sailors assigned to that task.
An officer mounts the quarterdeck and dispatches the Messenger of the Watch. The boy scurries below, and presently three more officers come on deck, two young and one somewhat older. They go stand next to the gangway. From his bearing, the older man will be the First Mate, and I think the Officer-of-the-Watch there is Second. The young ones are probably Third and Fourth Mates. A man who is not dressed nautical also comes on deck. He must be the Purser.
A sturdy and rough-looking sailor in Master's garb, plainly the Bo'sun's Mate, stands ready with his pipe.
"He's here!" comes the shout from the foretop. I cannot see it, but I sense that a carriage has arrived at the foot of the gangway. There is the sound of a coach door closing, and a mighty cheer goes up. It rings from every deck, every spar, every ratline on the ship.
Hoorah! Hoorah! Hoorah for Captain Laughton!
Presently a head, wearing a captain's elegant hat, is seen above the rail, and then the rest of Captain Augustus Laughton appears and steps onto the deck of the Lorelei Lee, to even more cheers.
There he is, good old Gussie, bless 'im! Hoorah! Hoorah!
Any thoughts I might have had of rallying a disgruntled crew to mutiny and so reclaim my ship have just been banished. 'Tis plain they love him. Oh well, there will have to be another way...
Captain Laughton is a big man, wide of girth. In doffing his hat to acknowledge the cheers of his crew and the salutes of his officers, he reveals a bald head, fringed with gray hair. His nose is bulbous, his lips thick and sensuous, and his eyes merry.
Putting his hat back on, he speaks first to Higgins. "They are all aboard and accounted for, Mr. Higgins?"
"Yes, Sir," says Higgins, with a slight bow. "The ladies are being accommodated below." I notice that Higgins has already acquired a "Mister" before his name, though he is but a steward. Higgins does have his ways.
"Good. I hope they are comfortable." He turns to his First Mate. "Are we ready to get under way, Mr. Ruger?"
"Yes, Captain. The tide is right and the wind is fair for the channel."
"Very good, Mr. Ruger," says the Captain, as he mounts his quarterdeck. He turns and, in a great stentorian bellow, shouts, "All men to your stations! Topmen aloft to make sail! All others on deck, hands on the buntlines!"
Men scurry to take their places, but they do not yet raise the sails, for it turns out there is one more man to come aboard.
Another cheer breaks out as the man comes across the brow, carrying a long, thick staff. The crew calls him something, but I cannot make out what it is. He is dressed in a black Royal Navy Master's uniform and is very tall, and his face is clean-shaven, with craggy features—those features one can see, anyway, as he has a white bandage tied across his eyes. He is obviously blind, and he uses the staff to tap his way aboard. He does not bend his back, however. It is held ramrod straight.
Behind him, a young sailor carries what is apparently the man's seabag, and over his shoulder is slung a large drum. The sailor proceeds quickly to the foot of the foremast, drops the seabag, and sets the drum up on a tripod. The man in black follows his assistant to the foremast—I suppose by ear—and puts his hand out to touch the drum, which sits about waist high to him. He positions himself with his back to the mast, and two bass drumsticks are put in his hands. He faces aft expectantly.
"Shantyman!" bellows the Captain. "Get us under way!"
The Shantyman begins beating the drum head with a slow, steady boom ... boom ... boom...
And then he lifts his chin and sings, in a deep, rich, powerful voice...
London girls ain't got no combs,
Haul away, haul away!
They comb their hair with codfish bones!
Heave away, haul away!
The land lines are thrown off and the sails begin to rise. The men on the lines come in singing on the heave away! and haul away! lines, grunting as they put their backs into the work, as the shanty makes it easier for them to pull together.
Liverpool girls ain't got no frills,
Haul away, haul away!
They tie their hair with codfish gills!
Heave away, haul away!
The sails are up and they begin to fill. The Captain barks orders to the helmsman and to the men aloft trimming the sails. Goodbye, London. Goodbye, Jaimy. Goodbye, all I know and love. We heel over on the starboard tack and the Lorelei Lee turns her head from the land and points her bold bow south to the sea.
So heave away, my bully, bully boys!
Haul away, haul away!
Heave her up and don't you make a noise.
We're bound for South Austral-ia!
PART II
Chapter 15
Before we leave the calm waters of the Thames, we are fed dinner—deck by deck we're called down to get in line at the galley. I had reclaimed my cloak from my Newgate pals so's I can go through the line with the hood pulled over my face, as if in shame. In reality, I do not wish to be spotted, having already recognized one seaman I know and... Good God, there's another ... and there, standing behind the pots o' burgoo, yet another! I pull the hood lower and get through the line undetected. Never expected to see those three again, and I don't know how delighted I am to see 'em. Oh, well, a mate's a mate, no matter what.
On the mess deck we're each issued a tin mess kit—spoon, cup, and bowl. "Take 'em, ladies, fill 'em up wi' the Lorelei's good grub, and when you've dropped it all down yer pie hole, well, you takes yer u-ten-sils over to that soapy tub right over there and washes 'em wi' that brush hangin there and then stashes 'em in yer hammock, neat as y'please ... Awright?...Good ... Next ... Hello, ladies..."
I sit at one of the long tables with my back to those blokes dishin' out the grub. It's pretty good burgoo, I must say—oatmeal mush with peas and some pieces of meat, and a nice biscuit, besides. And some weak tea for your cup, too. Can't complain, no, and sure better than that swill dished out to us on the Hulk. It should be good, I growls to myself, considerin what I paid for them stores ... No, no, stop that ... You've got to quit saying that, girl ... Until you take her back, she is not your ship anymore, and her stores are not your stores. Best to get over all that and stick to your watching ... and planning...
Figurin' we're about to start rockin' and rollin' real soon, I get my gang back to our kip to rig their hammocks.