Under the Jolly Roger: Being an Account of the Further Nautical Adventures of Jacky Faber (21 page)

I open the door and step out.

"Call for the Captain's steward," I say to the Marines standing guard, and one of them goes off. I stand there looking all woebegone and sad until he comes back with the steward, whose name I know to be Higgins, in tow. He is a big man, dressed in a spotless white steward's coat. I had spoken to him briefly before and found him to be a very gentle sort of fellow and completely out of place on this ship. I hand him the tray.

"Captain Scroggs does not want us"—here I choke back a sob, a small, maiden-no-more sob—"to be disturbed tonight. In the morning, tap on the door, and I will bring his food in to him. Is that clear?" The steward nods and takes the tray and leaves. With some relief, I think—it must not have been very pleasant being that Captain's man.

I turn to the two Marines. We are alone, except for the helmsman, who I notice is no longer Joseph Jared but is instead John Harper.
Was Jared relieved before or after the cannonballs were dropped from the top rigging? Did I hear "Here's one for Puss, you lousy bastard!" shouted out just before the second ball was dropped? I don't know ...
I do know ears are out there listening in the dark and so I speak up for all to hear. "The Captain is worried for his safety because of what has happened here this evening. Therefore, he wants one of you to be on guard here at his door, around the clock. You will let no one but me in this door. One of you go get some sleep now, and relieve the other in four hours."

With that I turn to go down into the midshipmen's berth. Ned, Tom, and Georgie are there, all looking miserable and confused. Me standing there with my shirt ripped down to my belly button and stinking of whisky don't help their distress any. "How's Robin?" I inquire as I go into my cabin to get my seabag.

"He's in the b-brig, Jacky," says Georgie, sounding as if he's about to cry. "He's awake now and his head hurts." He's looking at my ripped shirt and stained pants. "What happened to you, Jacky, what..."

Ned nudges him in the side and says, "No, Georgie, not now. Let her be."

"Jacky, we ... we ...," stammers Tom, not able to look at me. It seems Ned and Tom have grown up some in the past few hours. They need something to do.

"Ned. Go up and take the watch. You shall be the Officer of the Deck for real now, as there are no other officers left aboard. Tom, you relieve him for the Midwatch. I'll take the Four to Eight," I say. "Just knock on the Captain's door to wake me."

Tom reddens and looks at the floor. I leave the midshipmen's berth and go back on deck. I walk across the fo'c'sle and across Three Hatch with my seabag slung over my shoulder for all to see, and I go back into the Captain's cabin.

The deception is complete.

Later, as I sit on the floor, eating the Captain's food and drinking his wine, I think on the nature of things. I'm munching away, not thinking it overly strange to be eating and soon to be preparing to sleep in a room that also contains a new corpse, as I've got to keep up my strength for what is to come. Plus, I find him a much more charming companion in his current condition, anyway.

Then it hits me....

And it hits me with the force of a blow. I am maybe fifteen years old. I am a girl. I am also an acting lieutenant in the Royal Navy, and, by the Naval Rules and Regulations as regards the chain of command, I am in command of His Majesty's Ship
Wolverine.

I hear the knock on the door at quarter to four in the morning and rouse myself from the floor where I had slept. I dress myself in my jockey gear yet again, 'cause my shirt and trousers are messed up, and my drawers, too, are soiled with the spilled whisky that soaked through to them. I do, however, put my uniform jacket on over the striped top, since it managed to escape harm. As did I, thank God.

On with my boots and out the door, I stop to remind the Marine standing there that the Captain is not to be disturbed, and then go up on the quarterdeck. I relieve Tom of the watch and he goes below, too tired to think of anything to say to me other than the course we are steering and the knots we are making and the time we will turn to the next leg of our patrol.

There is now a different man on the helm, and I don't know him very well, so, other than checking his course, we don't talk. I just plant my feet amidships, look up at the stars, and wait for morning.

I had especially wanted this watch because I wanted to be out in plain sight when morning came so they can all get a good look at me in all my shame. What they
think
to be my shame. I've told the lookout to keep a careful eye out for the officers returning from their mission. Dawn breaks, but he reports nothing.

At six o'clock, I send word to the cooks to fire up their stoves for breakfast. I tell them the Captain has had a change of heart, and so the men wake up to a hot breakfast, one they had no reason to expect. I want them in a good mood.

What will happen to me when the officers come back? I suppose I'll be demoted back to common girl and taken back to England as fast as possible and dumped, which will be all right with me. I'll pick up Judy and we'll figure out something to do. It will be lovely to get the Lady Lenore, Gully MacFarland's fine, fine fiddle, in my hands again and back to playing in the taverns till I get a big enough stake to return to Boston. Who knows, if I work hard enough and am thrifty, maybe I'll be able to earn enough to buy a small boat and get Faber Shipping, Worldwide, started. I will miss Robin and the boys, but I will leave this ship secure in the knowledge that I did some good whilst I was here.

At seven o'clock I wander over by the speaking tube and then suddenly stop, as if I had heard something from the Captain. I put my ear to the tube and pantomime listening to the Captain speak. After a few moments, I put my mouth on the tube and say, "Yes, Sir. Eight o'clock it is." I send word to the Captain's steward for him to have a tray ready for me to take into the cabin when I get off watch at eight o'clock. My Boston acting experience is coming in handy.

I have fun going over in my mind what I will say when the officers come back. I plan to be at the rail when they come aboard and I will have the Bo'sun's Mate trill his pipe and say
Wolverine, arriving ...
when Mr. Pinkham's head appears, and he'll look all shocked and say,
What?
because that's how you announce the Captain of a ship when he comes aboard. I'll salute him and say,
I wish you the joy of your command, Sir,
and he'll be all incredulous. And I'll tell him he is, indeed, the commander of the
Wolverine
for the time being, at least, and that Captain Scroggs is dead, and everyone will try to look solemn, but everyone will be jumping for joy inside.

It is so satisfying to imagine this scene that I do it over and over again in my mind ... I
wish you the joy of your command, Mr. Pinkham...

Men are coming on deck to commence their ship's work. Most look at me with pity, perhaps thinking of their sisters and sweethearts, while others can barely keep the leers and smirks off their faces as they pass.
Well, she finally got hers,
I know they are thinking,
and the little busybody sure had it comin', she did.

That's the expression Muck and his crew have on their faces as they file by.
Let it be, girl,
I say to myself.
Just wait.

Ned relieves me at eight and I tell him that if he needs anything to just rap on the Captain's cabin door and I'll be right out. He blushes and nods.

Higgins, the steward, comes up with the tray precisely at eight and I take it from him and go in the cabin. I sit down at the table and survey my breakfast. It sure beats what we've been eating, that's for sure. There's two cups of coffee—thanks, Higgins—and a plate of real fresh rolls and butter, some little fishes with sauce, slices of ham—
ham! Can you
believe it!
—and eggs! Three of them! Where the hell has this Higgins been hiding the chickens?

Before I sit down and tuck in, I go and open the windows just a bit, but I do not pull the curtains. Then I sit back down and rattle the silverware as if two people were sitting down to breakfast.

I make the lowest rumbling in my chest,
Grumble rumble ratz ...
hoping it sounds a bit like the Captain's surly voice.

"Yes, Sir," I say in my meek little voice. "Holystone and sand, and then exercise the guns. Yes, Sir."

I make other small talk, back and forth, and then I set into eating. I know the ears at the windows have heard, and while they probably wanted to hear the Captain thumping the bed with me, breakfast talk is all they get.

Lord, that's good!
I exult. How does he afford this on a one-swab captain's pay, I don't know, but I'll take it. Or, rather,
we'll
take it. After I'm done, I find some paper on a shelf and I wrap the leftover food in it. Then I take the tray and my bundle of soiled clothes and I go back out and close the door behind me. Higgins still waits there.

"That was very good, Higgins." I hand him the tray. "Will you see that my shirt is sewn back up and it and the other clothes are cleaned?"

"Oh yes, Miss," he says, seemingly overjoyed at not having to go into the cabin. I guess each of his visits there ended with a boot up his behind. Though he is a big man, he is gentle, and he seems touchingly glad to hear a kind word about his service.

"And, Higgins," I say with a warning look, "none of that stuff that Weisling pulled with my clothes..."

"Miss. Please. I was trained in service to Lord Hollingsworth before I was brought down to ... this."

"Well, all right then. Thank you."

I instruct Ned not to disturb the Captain for anything, just send for me and I'll be right up. Then I take my packet of food and go below to the berth. Tom and Georgie are sitting at the table. I go up to them and say "Open." They don't know what to think, and so I pull out one of the delicious fishes and dangle it over Tom's face. He opens his mouth and I drop it in. "Mmmm," he says.

I do the same for Georgie. "See? It ain't so bad. Now cheer up." But Georgie don't cheer up.
Hmmmm ...
I give them each a piece of the buttered bread and leave, heading down to the brig.

The light is dim, but I can see Robin lying on the hard bench. There is no guard, as there is no need for one. Even if he got out, where could he go?

"Robin."

He stirs and sits up. Seeing me, he puts his palms over his eyes.

"How is your head?" I ask.

"It does not throb so much in pain now as it does in shame and disgrace."

"Come, Robin, you did what you could—you even put your very life on the line for me, and I will never,
ever
forget that, as long as I may live."

He takes his hands from his eyes and they blaze feverishly in mine as he gets down on one knee and says, "Jacky Faber, if you will do me the honor of being my wife, I will be the happiest of men. Please say that you will before that fiend takes me out and hangs me. I do not care what he—"

"You could not have been more noble, Robin Raeburne, but we will not speak of that now. And the Captain is not going to hang you. I have already taken care of that," I say to set his mind to rest. "Come, have something to eat with me."

There is a stool in the corner and I pull it over to the bars and sit down and unwrap my package. His anguish is plain and he seems to be struggling to put something into words, but I stop him by putting my fingertips to his lips. "Just eat, Robin." I sigh, and, reluctantly, he sits down beside me to eat. The heart guides, but the belly rules.

On the way back to the quarterdeck, I meet Jared. He's got a bit of his cocky look, but not all of it.

"Sorry, Miss," he says, "but, hey..."

"'But, hey' is right" is what I say in reply. "Thanks for what you did—taking the helm like that and covering for the cannonball rollers ... and for whatever else you did." I am sure he is the one who dropped the cannonballs from the top rigging onto the cabin roof.

I pat his arm and go to the deck and check in with Ned. The turn to the next leg is due at four o'clock. On my watch. Good.

Six bells in the Morning Watch. Still no sign of Mr. Pinkham and the others returning. Even if they were taken out to the flagship itself, and they would have been, considering the grave charges against the Captain that they were carrying, they should have been back by now. Could they have been taken by a French patrol? Are they now in a French prison? Poor Mr. Pinkham, if only you will return, you will find yourself in command of a fine ship. If you don't, a year or so in a dank French dungeon, waiting to be exchanged for a French officer in similar straits, will be your lot. Either way, it'll be better than serving under the late Captain Scroggs, I'll wager.

At noon, Higgins appears with the luncheon tray. He tells me my clothes are drying and I should have them soon. I thank him and take the tray into the cabin.

"Good day, Captain," I say. "I have brought the noon meal," for the benefit of the Marine guard and Higgins, as I close the door.

The Captain doesn't say anything. His mouth has fallen open, but I'll be damned if I'm going to try to close it. Besides, it just looks like he's asleep and snoring.

"
Harrummmph. Gargle snark,
" I say for him, as low and guttural as I can make it.

Then I eat. Once again, the food is delicious, and once again I wrap up the greater portion to take to Robin later. I had thought about letting him out of the brig—sure could use another officer on the watch rotation—but then I thought better of it: The Captain certainly would not have released Robin after what he had done. The crew would know that and be suspicious.
Very
suspicious. Then, too, Robin might make an attempt to kill the Captain to avenge my fallen honor. Couldn't have that.
Nay, Robin, you must cool your heels a while longer.

At one o'clock I mount the quarterdeck once more, having told Higgins, and anyone listening in, that the Captain was ill again and for him not to prepare quite so much food as the Captain's digestion is upset and he has taken to his bed. This, of course, gets to Earweg, the loblolly boy, and he appears with his bottles of white stuff and his bleeding bowl. I take them from him and say that I will give the Captain his doses. Earweg looks distressed, feeling, quite rightly, that he is losing some status here. I tell him, too, that the Captain does not want to be bled just now. I put the bottles on a shelf in the cabin and wonder about what harm they might have brought to Earweg's late patient and shiver.
First, do no harm ...
Isn't that part of the doctor's oath?