Harry Quist does not leave ... that is, not until First Mate Ruger appears at the rail. Then he and his mates vanish in a flash. Ruger stands regarding me with steady gaze and crossed arms. I do not acknowledge his presence and instead turn back to crashing through the next swell, and it's a good deep one... Glorious!
When I resurface, I see that the First Mate has been replaced up there by ... what?...the Shantyman? He is surrounded by a mob of garrulous sailors, one of whom bears a length of rope, so I know what is going to happen next...
Over the past week or so on the Lorelei Lee, it has become a tradition, an initiation, like, for each man to be taken down, such that he can place his grubby hands on the chest of my beautiful figurehead and so become full-fledged Lorelei Mates in Good Standing, all rights and privileges therewith appertaining and all that. Most of the more able hands clamber over the under-bowsprit netting to accomplish this task, but some are less nimble and do not. Early on, the squalling young Ship's Boy Quist was bound about his h*ps and legs and lowered upside down to do the deed, which he eventually did with much relish.
It was Captain Laughton's own turn several days ago, so he allowed himself to be placed into a reasonably comfortable Bo'sun's Chair and lowered down in range of the quarry, where he did his duty with the Lorelei. He endured it all in good spirits and called it excellent fun—"Har-har! Just wait till we get all of you down to the equator when King Neptune himself comes aboard. Then we shall see, my fine laughing ladies. Then we shall see..."
But now, on this day, it is the Shantyman's turn. He, unlike Quist, is treated like an officer on the ship. The men would not think of touching him without permission, but it seems he has granted that, since he grins widely as he is bound up and put over. They treat the Shantyman much more kindly than they did Quist and his mates, and, indeed, even more gently than they did the Captain.
"Can't be a true member of the crew of the Lorelei Lee, Sir, if ye ain't touched the chest of the mermaid, now can ye, Sir? Careful there, Mr. Lightner, easy now."
Enoch Lightner is lowered within range of the mermaid and all her charms.
The Shantyman runs his hands over the Lorelei's lower parts and then, to the delight of the seamen, starts to sing...
'Twas on the Good Ship Venus,
By Christ, you should have seen us,
The figurehead of a whore in bed
And a mast like an...
...and here he stops, for he has run his knowing fingers over the carved face of the wooden figurehead. Then he laughs and says, "Are you down there, Faber?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Ah. I thought I recognized your voice," he says, leaving his hands on the Lorelei's face. "And I think I'm seeing something else, too..."
Uh-oh...
And then I am saved, once again...
"On deck there! Land ho! It is the Rock!"
***
Later, when we have dried off and have gotten dressed, I climb into the rigging, and yes, it is the mighty Rock of Gibraltar that looms over us as we are warped in and tied up to the Mole, a long earthwork breakwater and pier. My girls below me on the deck are amazed at the massiveness of the thing and gape in wonder.
"Aye, ladies, it is not called the Pillar of Hercules for nothing," say I. "Is it not grand?"
They allow that it is, but then they see that there are at least four other ships—Royal Navy ships at that—tied up to that pier, and many sailors hang in the rigging of those ships and look avidly at us as we come in, all of our Crews festooned on deck and in our rigging. There are at least four hundred men on each of those ships—that's a lot of potential customers.
"But Jacky," says Esther, "all the other Crews will be out there making money, lots of it, and then, when it comes to the bidding for berths, we will have little. So we'll be tossed out of our berth, and I, for one, like the light and air up above. I sure don't want to go down into that dark hold."
"Steady on, Esther, we'll see what turns up. I have plans, trust me. The Newgaters shall not go down into the bottom of the hold," I say. And as for you, Esther, you don't have to worry about going into any dark hole as long as you have young Major Johnston longin after you.
The Lorelei Lee is expertly brought into her berth under Captain Laughton's stern gaze, and as we are being tied up, he turns from his nautical duties on his quarterdeck to address his cargo.
"Ladies!" he calls. "We are in the port of Gibraltar! There are four Royal Navy ships moored about us here, as well. There is also a garrison of two thousand men quartered up at the fort. You see a long pier here that is called the Mole. You will be confined to that place, and there will be a guard placed at the end of that pier to insure that none of you leave it. The other ships moored here are the Surprise, the Laurentian, the Indomitable, and the Redoubt. I have been apprised by their captains that well-behaved ladies will be allowed aboard their respective ships for the three days we will be in port."
There is a general cheer at this, and not all coming from the Lorelei Lee.
"The under-sixteens, both male and female, are not allowed off," continues the Captain, once again occasioning groans from Quist and his lads. "And on Sunday morning, two days from now, when the ship's bell rings six times, everyone must be back aboard. Anyone late will suffer twelve strokes of the rod. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Sir!" is the general female chorus, eager to be off.
"Mrs. Barnsley, Mrs. Berry, and Mrs. MacDonald," intones the Captain. "Take care of your girls ... and remember, madams ... my twenty percent. And now, liberty call! And let Venus, Bacchus, and Cupid rule!"
And rule they do...
There is general riot throughout that evening and night. I counsel my lasses to lie low, so we gather down in the galley to sip strong coffee with Cookie and Keefe, telling stories of the Bloodhound and such. As the noise of the riot grows higher, I sneak out of there and down to a certain storeroom, where I know the wine is stored, and though I could be whipped for it, make off with three bottles of the best, along with some select cheeses, and head back to the galley. Once there, we divide it all up, and Cookie adds some fresh and fluffy biscuits, so our magnificent feast is even finer.
A few more stories and songs and then we go down to our berth and turn in to our hammocks, while the sounds of merriment outside continue unabated.
"Good night, ladies," I say, burrowing my face into my pillow—yes, Higgins had gotten me one, bless him. "Think of how much better you will feel come morning than your wayward sisters."
Good night, Jaimy, I pray that you are safe.
Chapter 25
James Fletcher
Onboard Cerberus
Under way for New South Wales
Dearest Jacky,
It has been three days since I was first brought aboard, and now we are under way.
Large gangs of the the Great Unwashed of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales have been dragged aboard in chains, and the holds below are pure bedlam. I'm almost glad I'm confined here in maximum security with this pack of Irish scoundrels.
And yes, Jacky, your former associates have been treating me to many lively accounts of your antics in the Mediterranean and the Caribbean when you sailed with them on your Emerald. Ah, yes, many saucy tales of your dancing on tabletops and suchlike in low foreign dives. Some stories I believe, but some I ascribe to that Arthur McBride's apparent desire to piss me off as much as possible. We shall see...
One thing I know for sure is that if I ever again have to listen to a tale prefaced with, Hey, remember the time our Jacky... I shall lose all of my self-control and will wrap my chain about the throat of the taleteller and squeeze until nothing else ever issues forth from his lying mouth. Especially galling is their continued use of the phrase "our Jacky." I growl every time I hear it.
I know that Amy Trevelyne has written books about your exploits, and I know that I am featured in some of them. Yes, I realize that they are reasonably accurate, but I am sorry—I cannot bring myself to read them. Maybe someday, if we are ever together again and settled ... Slim chance of that, I know, but still, one can hope.
The Irish lads keep up their spirits by singing—mostly in Gaelic, which is good because, if the meaning of the words were known, it would surely anger the guards. The songs lift my spirits as well as I lean back against the wall and listen, for I know you love these tunes, too, Jacky. I remember with pleasure hearing you sing some of them last year when we both sailed the Caribbean. Happy days, now, in retrospect ... Happy, lost days...
Now that we are well away from the land and are not liable to escape, our neck manacles have been removed, giving us a bit more freedom of movement, which is welcome. As I had earlier surmised, we are taken down to the head each morning, and then we shuffle along to the mess hall. There are long tables and we stand at one of them where small buckets of slop are placed in front of us. We are given a short time to eat it—with spoons only, of course—and after the buckets and spoons are counted, we are led back to our cell. During that time, however, there are other prisoners with leg irons arrayed about the tables, and some conversation twixt them and the Irish lads goes on ... good men ... they are doing as they were told—finding out who's a seaman, and who might be trusted.
The Weasel, our cell keeper, has been joined in this task of guarding us by his two superior guards, the ones in charge of our entire hold. They wear the red coats of the Army, now faded and worn, but still they insist that we address them by their former ranks—Sergeant Napper and Corporal Vance. Filthy sods. They were undoubtedly drummed out of the corps, probably for sloth and cowardice, yet they still cling to some pathetic shreds of once honorable trappings. They both carry cudgels and use them without mercy. Several of the Irish lads receive thumps on the way to the mess line, but heeding my advice, they do not reciprocate in kind.
The Weasel especially enjoys tormenting me.
"How d' ye like yer fine life now, Mr. Fletcher, now that ye've been brought low? Would you like for me to shine your boots now, Sir?"
"What I really like, Weasel, is thinking about how much fun it will be in killing you, when the time comes," I reply. "Yes, that thought does bring me some joy."
Laughs and Hear, hear! from my cellmates at this.
"That time ain't never gonna come, and you know it!" hisses the Weasel. "You're naught but a dirty, chained-up convict now, and the rest o' yiz is filthy micks, and I'm the one with the keys! And don't ye call me that name again! That's what she called me back then. I had to take it from that mean little witch, but I ain't takin' it from you!"
"She named you well, Weasel," I hiss. "You slimy piece of dung."
The Weasel swings back his cudgel and lays it against the side of my head. Expecting it, I raised my shoulder and took most of the blow there, so it wasn't so bad, and it gained me a few points with the men I hope will end up serving as my crew.
Weasel ... weasel ... weasel... is whispered from across the room, coming from various lips, first here, then over there, and the enraged Weasel, confused, retreats from the cell. Derisive laughter follows him out.
I think you have lost the day, Weasel, and good for you...
Small victories, but still...
And so the days roll on...