Oh well, enjoy what you've got, girl, and don't moan over what you haven't.
When I resurface, I see that my girls are getting into the spirit of the thing. There is even some laughter, as bags are tossed into the other tub, and...
...and then someone is rattling at the door latch, trying to open it.
I had, of course, put my wedges under the door when we entered, to preserve our privacy and to prevent unwanted entry. I mean, Mick and Keefe are in the next space, and I had just paraded twelve females in various states of slovenly loveliness before them, so we must be careful. The door swings inward and so the wedges will do their job. I learned that lesson long ago—it would take a battering ram to open up that door.
There is a loud rapping and a man's voice says, "Open this door!"
"Go away!" I shout back. "There are ladies here! If it's you, Mick, you'd better behave!"
"This is Mr. Ruger, the First Mate. Open this goddamned door! Now! Or I'll have you whipped!" There are some gasps of alarm from my Crew standing fearfully around me.
I wiggle myself around in the tub so as to face the door, cross my arms over my chest, and nod to Mary Wade. "Let him in."
Mary crosses to the door and pulls out the wedges and flips up the latch. The door swings open to reveal the First Mate standing with his own arms crossed on his chest. He is a man of about thirty-five, with dark hair flecked with a few strands of gray and tied back with a black ribbon. He's wearing a black uniform—a jacket with gold trim and buttons, a heavy leather belt, and black trousers. In addition to that, he wears an expression of extreme arrogance, and though he is a good-looking man, I take an instant dislike to him.
I sink down such that only my head, shoulders, and knees poke out of the water, which is now somewhat cloudy with soap, and fasten my gaze upon the intruder. He walks in and stands over me.
"What is your name, girl?"
"Mary Faber," I say, suppressing the "Sir" the military part of me wants to add.
"Is this normally part of the laundry concession?"
"It is when I'm runnin' it," I say. "Which I am."
"Watch your mouth, convict, and stand up," he orders.
What?
"I am the First Officer on this ship and I am ordering you to stand up. If you do not do it, I will have you dragged out of there and taken, in your current state of undress, to the deck and there to be caned."
Fine. I stand up.
As I rise, I place my hands over my sex, as if from shyness, but really so I can cover the blue tattoo on my right hip with the inside of my right forearm.
He grasps his hands behind and walks slowly around my dripping self. He makes some appreciative murmurs, but apparently this is not enough to satisfy him.
"Put your hands down. Uncover yourself."
I stick my chin in the air. "You will not grant me even token modesty?" I burn him with my best Lawson Peabody Look, but seemingly to little effect.
"You are a convict on a convict ship bound for a convict colony. You have very few rights. Drop your hands, or else feel the lash on those buttocks."
I do it, sliding my hands to my hips, where I leave them. The right one continues to cover my tattoo. I'm hopin' this will satisfy him and he'll leave.
It does not.
His hand snakes out and grabs my right wrist and pulls it away from my side.
"Ha. I thought so. Jacky Faber herself," he says with great satisfaction. "When I saw your name on the manifest, I knew it must be you. You see, I read the papers, and I read books, too, even silly penny-dreadfuls sometimes. It will please me greatly to be featured in the next one, in a very amorous context."
Now that I am completely exposed, he drops my arm and takes another leisurely turn about me, chuckling to himself.
"Very nice. Very nice, indeed. It appears the books did not lie," he says with some relish. "You shall be with me, Jacky Faber. You will find it to your benefit."
"I think not."
"I think so. You may report to my cabin."
"The Captain says we cannot be forced, and I hear he is an honorable man. I assume his order goes for the officers as well as for the seamen."
"We shall see." He lifts his hand toward my breast.
"Do not touch me, Sir, as I have not given permission. Would you disobey your Captain?"
He slowly lowers his hand. "You will change your mind, girl. This will be a long voyage and I am a patient man. I can wait to get what I want."
With that, he turns on his heel and leaves the washroom.
Brows knitted in a deep frown, I sink back into the water,fuming.
"Coo," breathes Esther Abrahams, blond curls about her face, eyes bright with curiousity. "Just who are you, Mary?"
Good question, Esther...
Then I pop out of the tub, dry myself, get into clean drawers... ahhhhh... and the rest of my serving-girl rig—black skirt that comes only to my knees, loose white shirt with low bodice, and black weskit laced up tight about my waist and lower ribs. Though it is not anywhere near the finest of my clothing, I have always liked the fit of this outfit. Back in harness, girl, yes, and ready for what comes.
Afterwards, I leave the laundry under the supervision of Maggie Wood, who has become my second-in-command, to go looking for Higgins. I figure it can't hurt, now that my cover has been blown out of the water.
I find him emerging from Laughton's cabin, bearing a tray that holds the remains of the Captain's breakfast. I catch his eye and nod toward the passageway that leads down to the cabins. He nods in response and passes the tray to a waiting ship's boy.
"To the galley, Quist, and pass the word that the Captain will want a table set up on the main hatch to watch tomorrow afternoon's festivities."
The boy scurries off as we go down. Higgins opens a door and we go in. I discover that it is his own cabin, and it is one of the better ones. Trust Higgins to always better his state—bed, dresser, dry sink, porthole, and room to turn around.
"Pretty plush, compared to what I've been livin' in, Higgins." I sniff, with a big pout on my face, suddenly self-pitying and totally ungracious. Then I spy my seabag next to the bulkhead and dissolve into tears. This had been my ship and that was my seabag and now it's not. I'm sorry, Higgins, I know you do your best for me, and I know I do not deserve it, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry...
He places a hand on each of my shaking shoulders and holds them to calm me. I burrow my face into his chest, sobbing.
"I know you have had a hard time of it, Miss, and I, too, am sorry for that. But you must agree we have found ourselves in much more serious circumstances before." He takes his right hand from my shoulder and places it on my back, gently patting it.
"I know, Higgins"—I snuffle, running the back of my hand under my suddenly running nose—"that I'm actin' like a baby. I'll stop now. And we've got to talk." He releases me and I step back.
He waits, expectant.
"My cover is blown away, burned to the waterline..." And I relate to him the incident in the laundry with Ruger.
"...and he beheld me in my natural state, tattoo and all, so all will now know of my past," I conclude.
"Hmmm..." Higgins considers this development. "Well, I was already quite sure your identity would eventually become known, so it's possible that no harm will come of this."
"I don't want him on me, Higgins," I say with a shiver.
"Well, the Captain's order still stands, and I think Mr. Ruger will have to obey it."
Higgins ponders all this some more, and after a while, he says, "Indeed, it could be to your advantage that you come to be known as more than just a common convict. Your notoriety might lend you some protection. I've noticed that Captain Laughton is not a man who worries himself overmuch about ordinary concerns."
"How so, Higgins?"
"Well, for one thing, he has directed that I set up a table for him and his officers for the viewing of the holiday-routine festivities on Saturday afternoon, and that the table is to be laden with the best of our wine stores and other viands..."
Grrrrr...
"Let it go, Miss. It is only ship's stores, and not worthy of your concern."
"Yes, but it once was mine to parcel out."
"Miss, please..."
"All right, I'll be good. What else?"
A slight pause, then a quick clearing of the Higgins throat. "Ahem. The Captain has commissioned me to pick two of the more toothsome beauties from the Crews, as I believe they are now called, to be his ... companions ... this afternoon ... and probably this evening, too."
I laugh. "Poor Higgins, you may now add pimp to your list of butlery skills."
Finding that not overly funny, he frowns, and I give him a poke. "Come on, Higgins, I'll prolly be doin' the same thing myself and real soon," say I, thinking of the hapless Mick and Keefe who couldn't find a decent girl if they were thrown into the same sack with one, as well as the futures of members of my own Crew. After all, we're all being sent down as breeders, so if I can make the pairings kind and pleasant, instead of mean and nasty, then I will bend my best efforts in that regard.
I pop over to sit on the bed and give a bounce or two, then ask, "The man the Captain called the Shantyman. Who is he?"
Higgins goes to the dresser and picks up a brush, and then comes back to stand over me.
"Tsk," he says, applying the brush to my now dry but very unruly thatch. "What am I expected to do with this?"
"What you can, Higgins, and it is so good to feel your hands on my hair again. I cannot tell you just how good." I close my eyes and revel in his touch, forgetting all other troubles.
After a few minutes of vigorous brushing, he begins the tale. "As for the Shantyman, his name is Enoch Lightner, and he was Captain Laughton's Sailing Master when both were in the Royal Navy. At the 1804 Battle of the Nile, they stood side by side on the quarterdeck of the frigate HMS Falconer, and during that furious engagement with Napoleon's fleet, Mr. Lightner was struck across the face with a burning blast of powder that blinded him in both eyes forever."
"That is very sad," I said. "But it does happen. What is he doing here now?"
"The Captain and Mr. Lightner were particular friends and, unwilling to see his friend rot away his life in some dismal room, trying to subsist on a meager pension, Captain Augustus Laughton left the Royal Navy and signed on with the East India Company, so that he would be able to bring his former Sailing Master along on his voyages, as a shantyman, leading the musical chants that help the seamen do their jobs. You already know he has a very powerful voice."
"Very commendable of the Captain. But it must have been pure torture for the poor man, once having been a Sailing Master, to feel the wind on his face and to hear the rustling of the slack sails and not to be able to issue orders for the setting of those sails. I know it would kill me."
"Yes, Miss, but when you consider the alternative—a cold and quiet room for the rest of your days, with no joy, no good company, nothing ... And unlike the old, retired sea captain of yore, not even the comfort of sitting with spyglass and looking out over the harbor to gaze upon the shipping therein..."