Under the Jolly Roger: Being an Account of the Further Nautical Adventures of Jacky Faber (16 page)

I get up and go back into my room and throw off the blanket, making sure the door is closed behind me. Jockey pants, jockey top, stockings, and boots is all I got so I put 'em on and stride back out.

"Are you sure you're going to go out like that, Jacky?" says Robin, rising.

Before I can reply, Ned comes back into the berth. "Mr. Pinkham wants to see you," he says ominously.

Uh-oh.

"What else shall I wear while my other clothes are drying?" I look at my face in the communal mirror, which is placed there for the midshipmen to shave. Robin is the only one who could use it and him just barely. They shan't see me looking worried. I take inventory of my appearance. Clean enough, I think. I take my hair and twist it and pile it up under my hat. There. I'm presentable.

"Ned, lend her your jacket," orders Robin.

Ned strips off his midshipman jacket and goes to hand it to me, but Robin takes it instead and holds it open for me to put on. Well, it won't hurt to be a little more modest when I go out to face Mr. Pinkham, I'm thinking.

"Ned, Georgie, go find out where the Weasel is with our breakfast," says Robin.

They leave, a little resentfully, but, after all, Robin is second in command of midshipmen.

I grab the cuff of my jockey top with my right fingers and shove my right arm through the proffered jacket. Then the same thing with the left. Not a bad fit, I think, as I bring the front together and start to button up. I face Robin. "I wish Ned and Tom weren't being so mean to Georgie over last night. I mean, he is just a boy."

"They are just jealous," he says, getting a bit red in the cheeks. "As I was jealous, as well."

Hmmmm...

"I can button my own buttons, Robin," I say, as he begins to button the jacket. He steps away, shamefaced and confused. I finish the buttons and go to him and put my hands on his shoulders. "But it's nice of you, Robin. Most males I have met so far have tried to unbutton my clothes, rather than the opposite."

He blushes all the more.

I pause for a bit and then say, "I'll wager you have no sisters, Robin."

"What ...?" he says, confused. "No ... no, just two brothers. How did you know?"

"Because you are not easy with me, Robin, and you are probably not easy with any girl. If you had sisters, especially older sisters, then you would know that girls are not mystical beings but people just like you, and then you would be easy with them. But you will never know that ease, and that is all right, because you are a shy, sweet boy and you will do all right with the girls because of it. We like shyness in a boy ... sometimes. Now, brush me off and I will go see Mr. Pinkham."

He flicks some pieces of lint off the jacket with the back of his fingertips, careful not to touch my front.

"You must know, Robin, that I have decided to live single all of my life," I say, putting my hand on his chest and looking in his eye.

"If that proves to be true, then it will be a shame, Jacky," he says. "Just because he was not good enough for you does not mean that another might not be more true."

What?

"That James Fletcher. He was not good enough for you. He should never have left you alone in Boston."

What?

"I would never have left you there in Boston. I would have run away with you."

That damned book!

"Robin. I don't want to hear that name mentioned again. And I don't want to hear about that book anymore, either!"

With that I wheel and stalk out of the berth.

I go to the quarterdeck and present myself to Mr. Pinkham who lets me cool my heels off to the side for a long time before addressing me. Finally, he does.

"You left the quarterdeck without being ordered to do so last night. Do you admit that?"

"Yes, Sir," say I. It would do no good to protest that I was doing it for the good of the ship.

"You endangered the men in the top who were trying to do their duty while you were showing off and who had to rescue you instead of doing that duty. Is that true?"

I grit my teeth. "Yes, Sir."

"And what do you have to say about that?"

"No excuse, Sir."

"Very well. Into the foretop till noon."

I salute and head up into the top. I have always wondered at the mildness of this traditional punishment for wayward midshipmen, it being so mild in comparison with that dealt out to the common seamen. I guess it's supposed to have a certain amount of humiliation in it, but it doesn't bother me any. I just settle in at the top and look at the clouds drifting by and wish I had my pennywhistle and was allowed to play it. Or the Lady Lenore. Or my concertina. But that all seems so long ago, so I put it out of my mind.

The other lads ain't allowed to visit during this punishment time, so when I see Ned down below, I just take his jacket off and float it back down to him so he can wear it when he relieves Tom on watch. He catches it and waves. Then I settle back and watch the coast of France drift by on the starboard beam, the
Wolverine
being on the northern leg, and think about things.

I think about how lucky I've been so far on this voyage, and I'm hoping that my luck holds. If the Captain stays sick, or even dies, then I should be all right. I'm sure to be put off if the Captain is replaced, and then I'll be able to get back to poor Judy. I hope she's all right. I imagine she went to ... his place, but what happened there, I can't guess. Probably got booted out, and then headed back to Cheapside. Hope I gave her enough money to get by for a while. I had some scrimshaw in my seabag that I told her I was going to sell when I got a chance. Maybe she'll sell those to get enough money to keep herself till I get back. Hope she gets a good price, 'cause that is some prime scrimshaw, some of which I had done myself, some of which was done by others to pass the time on the whaler. We would take a piece of white whalebone, scratch a drawing on it with a needle, rub ink on it, and then wipe it off quick. The ink would stay down in the scratches and there we'd have a nice black drawing against the white bone. Mostly I'd do whaling scenes with harpoons and boats and lines and whales, of course, but the men would sometimes do mermaids and such, so you knew where their thoughts were. Men, I swear...

"On deck there! Boat heading out from the land!"

That jerks me out of my reverie right quick and I jump to my feet and look at the coast. What, another smuggler that's going to get away? No ... strange ... it is a large boat that has no sails, but instead has great long oars sticking out either side. But what's that big thing in the middle? It looks like...

"It's a gun shallop!" roars the lookout. "And it's headed right for us!"

"Beat to Quarters! All hands clear for action!" shouts Mr. Pinkham on the quarterdeck and the sounds of whistles and shouts and pounding feet are heard as all hands head for their battle stations. I slide down the port ratlines right into mine.

"Mr. Piggott! Tucker!" I shout as I see the boys running up to our gun. "Powder! Now!" They hie off in the direction of the magazine as the rest of the men get into position.

"Haul 'em back! Open the gun ports! Harkness, we'll load One and Three first, then the other two!" I say. "Swabbers! Make sure your buckets are full! Carriage men! Pull now!" Guns One and Three rumble back on their little wheels. On any decent ship, they would be loaded already, us being close to the enemy as we always are. I will keep my mouth shut about that as I think the folly of the Captain's ways are about to be forcefully shown.

The boys come back bearing the bags of powder and Harkness takes the one from Georgie and drops it down the barrel of Number One.

"Ram!" I say, from my position to the left of the gun. Shaughnessy rams the charge home. "Ball! Wad! Ram!"

I take the spike and the horn of priming powder from their hooks on the bulkhead and ram the spike down the fire hole to pierce the bag of powder, pour in the priming charge, and set the flint firing mechanism. "Out!" I yell and the rope and carriage men haul the gun forward so the muzzle goes back out through the port. "Set the blocks!"

Number One is ready to fire. And now Number Three.

They are hauling back Two and Four. I take a few strides across the deck to scope out the enemy. It is indeed a gun shallop—a big thirty-two-pound cannon mounted on a sturdy boat that is rowed into position to do its murderous work. The boat has to be built extra strong to withstand the repeated shocks of the recoil and, therefore, is not fast, but it does not have to be—it has the advantage of maneuverability of oars over the speed of sail and it is maneuvering right at us. I can see the blue-striped tops of the sailors as they bend their oars or stand by their gun. The French flag, the Tricolor, waves from the rear, and all aboard are singing the French national anthem, the "Marseillaise," at the tops of their lungs.

"
Allons enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé!
"

Even as they arrive, they fire, and the boom of the cannon rolls out toward us, as does a cannonball. I can see the ball and I know it will be short. It is. It splashes into the water about thirty yards off our beam.

All is in disarray on the starboard side of the
Wolverine.
The men who are not cowering under the rail are dashing about in confusion, trying to get the guns loaded. I look to my right and see that Robin's not having much luck with his guns, either.

The Captain has been hauled to the quarterdeck and he leans on Mr. Pinkham and bawls out orders that nobody is able to carry out. He is white in the face with the ravages of his sickness and his clothes are stained and filthy. And he seems incredulous that this is going on. I swear he even tries to wave the attacker off, like this is all a mistake. He has Mr.
Smythe, the Gunnery Officer, on the quarterdeck.
The mistake, Captain Scroggs, was in not training your crew.

The French gunboat fires again. They had reloaded in under two minutes. Probably more like ninety seconds. They are well trained.

I cannot see the ball this time, but it makes itself apparent soon enough. A man is crossing the deck in front of me and there is a
whap!
His head explodes in a red mist. The headless body stands for a second and then flops down, the remaining blood oozing out of the stump of his neck and spreading across the deck. I look down and see that I am splattered with it and again my knees turn to jelly and my bowels threaten to shame me, same as it ever was when I am in battle and people are doing their level best to kill me.
Stop that. Just think about what you have to do.

"
Aux armes citoyens!
Formez vos bataillons!
Marchons! Marchons!
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons!
"

I go back to my guns and to my men and stand there ready. We can do nothing for we are pointed the wrong way.

"What are they singing? What are they saying, Miss?" Tucker asks, as he brings up another bag of powder and hands it over.

"Oh, never you mind, Tucker. It's only something about them calling other Froggies to arms so's they can march through rivers of our blood."

Tucker allows that we'll see about
that
and then goes down for more powder.

"Fire, fire! Oh, why will you not fire?" I look up on the quarterdeck and hear the Captain shouting, but it is to no avail. No gun on the starboard side can answer the fire from the gunboat. He is reduced to crying, "Will no man do his duty? Will no man do his duty?"

I fill my lungs with air and shout out to him, "Turn the ship about and we will do ours!"

The Captain turns, as if in a dream, and looks at me standing there speckled with that poor seaman's blood and he says, "What? What are you saying?"

"Guns One through Four are ready for firing! Bring the ship about so we can bring them to bear! Or else sit here and be beaten to death by a one-gun boat!" I bellow with absolutely no respect in my voice.

The Captain jerkily gestures to Mr. Pinkham to do it, and Mr. Pinkham roars out "Hard alee! All topmen aloft to make sail!" and the helm is put over and slowly, ponderously, the
Wolverine
turns into the wind. And as we do, we hear the strains of the "Marseillaise" yet again, and yet again the gunboat fires. This time the ball whistles over the Captain's head but does no damage to the ship. The Captain ducks when the ball whizzes by.
A little lower next time, Froggies.

And we turn and turn and turn, but we are not there yet and I'd be damned if I'll have my men sing "God Save the King," in reply to the Frenchies and I think back to something that Jared told me one time and I stick out my chest and start chanting,
Were-wolves! Were-wolves! Were-wolves!
over and over till my men pick up the chant, too. Finally we are pointed south and the French gunboat is about to come within our sights.
Now, Frenchmen, we shall see.

Another verse? Don't they ever tire of their bloody song?

I lean over Gun Number One and wait for the gunboat to appear in my sights. I hold my breath, for while I know how to load and fire a gun, I've never actually
done
it.
Please, gun, please, go off.
I pull the lanyard.

Crack!

There is a thunderclap and the gun whips back under my cheek. I look out through the port—my shot was wide, but it got their notice. I leap over to Number Two and aim. Behind me I hear "Swab! Powder! Ram! Wad! Ram!" as Number One is reloaded.
Good boys!

"Harkness! Fire Number Four when she bears!" He leaps over to take the Gun Captain's spot.

"Fire!" I yell and pull the lanyard. The gun
cracks
and bucks back. Just then Harkness fires Four and a shout and a cheer goes up from our ship. I look out and see that one of our shots has ripped into the oars on the starboard side of the gunboat and its crew is furiously trying to ship new oars over on that side. They ain't singin' no more, that's for sure.

"
Were-wolves! Were-wolves! Were-wolves!
" I continue to chant as they reload, and soon all aboard pick up the chant. "
Were-wolves! Were-wolves! Were-wolves!
"