Under the Jolly Roger: Being an Account of the Further Nautical Adventures of Jacky Faber (49 page)

Despairingly,
Jaimy

Morning finds us in very light winds and a very heavy fog. I am extremely uneasy. I don't like the feel of this at all. I shush all on deck to be silent and I listen. I hear only the creak of the riggings, and not much of that, it being so still and quiet. I climb into the ratlines and lean out, straining to hear. Did I just hear something off to port there ... maybe not. If there is a ship out there, he's trying to be just as quiet as me. Was that a tiny ding? Was the clapper of a ship's bell not properly secured? Probably nothing, I think. Just getting jumpy. Best go get my breakfast.

I had plenty of time to think these past few days, sitting here becalmed and nervous as hell, hearing phantom noises out in the mist. I thought about the Admiralty. Why the difference in the reward for bringing me back—two hundred and fifty pounds alive or one hundred pounds for my head in a sack? That's a lot of money, two hundred and fifty pounds—that's a captain's pay for a year. They must want to talk to me for some reason ... maybe they think I know more about the spy ring than I told them? But I told them everything I knew. They couldn't get anything else out of me even with torture. I shiver at the thought of being tortured. I know I could never hold up under something like that. If it's just that they want to shut me up about what I know, why don't they just put up a reward for me dead and be done with it? My head delivered to them in a bag would certainly be more portable, and I would certainly be very, very quiet from then on. I don't know, I just don't know.

I do know, though, that every captain in the fleet is licking his chops, thinking about laying his hands on me and claiming that reward. I swear, if I get out of this, I'm going to carry rum from Barbados to Boston and granite from Boston to Jamaica. In the summer I'll ferry Irishmen across the ocean to work in Boston—that's it—I'll take their indenture for the passage and get paid when they find work—and there's plenty of work there. That's it. That's what I'll do. I promise. It won't be as exciting, but at least it'll be steady and I won't get hanged for it.

Before going down to my cabin to the breakfast that Higgins has surely laid out, I gaze into the fog in the direction of the French coast for a few moments more, but I don't see anything but gray. The breeze quickens on my cheek as I swing down to the deck and I jerk my head around.
Thank God! Maybe the wind is coming up! Maybe...
The sails give a hopeful flap and start to fill ... but wait ... is there something out there? Did I hear a noise? Wait...

The breeze gusts again and then it roars right in and sweeps away the fog like it was a dirty rag, and there,
there,
not a hundred yards away is HMS
Wolverine,
all her sails set and bearing down on us like the very wrath of God, Himself.

"Port your helm! Hard alee!" I scream. "Let's get the Hell out of here!"

Damn!

We fall off and our sails fill again but the wind had hit the
Wolverine
before it hit us and we have lost precious time and even more precious distance between us!

The
Emerald
finds her feet and claws her way through the water.

"Heave to and prepare to be boarded!" comes the call from across the water.

Not just yet, Captain Trumbull.

Liam comes up next to me, looking mighty worried.

"Crowd on all she's got, Liam, or we are lost!"

"All aloft to make sail!" he calls out, and men scramble to the top. "Set the skysails, the stuns'ls, the scudders! Every scrap of sail!"

They do it and the
Emerald
leaps forward, every board, every line groaning under the strain, but the
Wolverine
had gained so much ground, she having caught the new wind first, that I just don't know...

Then I hear it, from across the water:

Were-wolves! Were-wolves! Were-wolves!

Damn!

There is a deep boom and a puff of smoke from the
Wolverine
's bow chaser. The ball whizzes through the rigging. They've got us in range, that's for sure, but they can only bring the Long Tom to bear—if they swing around for a broadside and miss, then we will get clean away.
Do it! We'll take our chances!

But they don't do it. What they do is crowd on more sail and keep coming.

Were-wolves! Were-wolves! Were—

The chant cuts off abruptly. The men of my old crew must have just found out that it's me that they're chasing.

"Will we fire on them?" asks Liam, coming up beside me.

"No, we can't. Those are my friends over there. And besides, it will go harder on us if we are captured and we have shot at them. I think we can outrun them."

And, indeed, the distance between us seems to be widening.
Good, good, fleet
Emerald!
Show them your tail!

There is another shot from the
Wolverine.
Liam and I watch the ball fall short. It skips by our starboard side. We grin at each other.

Then we ain't grinning.

Uh-oh.

The
Wolverine
has come about in a last-ditch effort to stop us. She means to give us a broadside. My old Division One will fire on me! She brings her port guns to bear, and I hear Trumbull yell
Fire!
and I hear Eli beat the drum. I hear the thunder of the guns and I watch for the shots to fall.

Most fall short, and two bounce by our port side, but one, one which the gun captain had wedged to shoot high, almost like a mortar, arcs high, and we watch in fascination as it drops down toward us. If it hits our deck, it will do some damage, but the wound will not be mortal. And then we will be away.

But it doesn't do that. What it does is hit our mainmast square on. The mast splinters and comes crashing down to the deck, mainsail, royal, gallant, and all.

"Cut it away!" I scream, leaping on the tangled wreckage and hacking away at the lines with
Persephone.
Liam and the others take axes to the mess. If we can get it off, we might yet get away!

But it is not to be. The sail drags in the water, slowing us down to a crawl. The
Wolverine
heaves alongside with her starboard guns pointing right into our sides. There is a mighty crash as the Werewolves fire the full broadside right into my side, and right at the waterline. The
Emerald
reels from the blow and starts to settle. I know the wound is mortal. It is over. We are lost.

I go back to the fantail and strike my colors, so that they will not pound us anymore. The red, white, and blue curls around me as I run back forward and down into my cabin. I get my Letter of Marque and put it in my jacket and I look about at my cabin ...
oh, I loved you so ...
for the last time and lift my seabag and go back on my quarterdeck and wait. I have told Liam to pose as a member of the crew, as it will go easier for him that way. I shall be Captain in these, the last moments.

It does not take long. First it is a few seamen over my starboard side, seamen I recognize, and who, with a shock, recognize me. Then Captain Trumbull, then Jared, then ... Jaimy. They see me standing there and come over to me. As they approach, I pull out one of my pistols.

"You struck your colors, damn you!" shouts the Captain, stepping back. But the pistol is not for him.

I put the barrel under my chin and say, "What will become of my men?"

"Jacky, no...," says Jaimy.

"They are all prime seamen," I continue, the barrel cold against my throat. "Will you press them and nothing more? I cannot bear to see anything happen to them."

The Captain considers. "We need the men," he says.

"On your honor as a gentleman, you will press them and nothing more?"

"On my honor."

I point the pistol to the deck. The Captain comes up and roughly pulls the pistol from my hand. Then he yanks the other one from my belt, and I watch both clatter to the deck.

"What will happen to you, however, is another matter entirely," he says. "Bind her and take her back. Check below for cargo. Save what you can."

Heavy hands are put on me, and I am bound and taken away.

I am put to my knees at the foot of the mainmast of the
Wolverine,
so that I can fully enjoy the proceedings, I suppose. What they can salvage is taken off the
Emerald
and put below. My men are read the Articles of War and are signed on the ship's roster. All the boats are brought back and loaded aboard. My former
Wolverine
shipmates, my loyal midshipmen, all gaze at me in wonder and pity.

"Well, then," says the Captain with some satisfaction, as he comes up to stand next to me. "Mr. Fletcher. Since it was your gun that brought down her mast, I give you the honor of sinking the pirate. Fire at will."

Oh, Jaimy...

Jaimy nods and goes to the Number Six gun. He lifts the matchlock line and leans over the barrel. He ratchets two over and winches one up. He pulls the cord and the gun barks out its noise and flame. The ball crashes into the side of my dear
Emerald,
splintering the green and white checked top of the hull I loved so well.

He is a good shot. He moves to the next gun. His next round catches her in her flank at her waterline and she begins to heel over. His next goes in my cabin window and out the other side. I hear her glass shattering.

My beautiful ship is going down. My jewel. Jaimy ceases firing and stands at attention.

I try to keep the Look on my face and my head high, but I can't, I can't, I just can't. Tears slide over my cheeks as my precious
Emerald
sinks.

Her bow goes first, and then her tail lifts up, pauses a moment, and then she slips down beneath the waves. She always was the most elegant thing, and even in death she is graceful.

The last thing to go under is my brave little flag. Faber Shipping, Worldwide, is once again reduced to one rather small, and very scared, girl.

The Captain leaves me slumped there at the foot of the mast with orders that no one speak to me while they finish stowing what used to be my cargo. I will not meet Mr. Fletcher's eyes. You
sunk my ship, Jaimy, you did, you did. And it was a good one, too!
I try not to let black despair overwhelm me. I try not to let my head fall to my chest and my body sag in the ropes that bind me, but it is hard. I keep my head up somehow and look out over the sea, so I don't have to see the pitying looks from my former crew.

"Call the Marine detachment," orders the Captain, finally. The two Marines march forward and stop in front of him, and me.

Uh-oh.

The Marines have their rifles at port arms, held across their chests. The Captain is between the Marines and me, and he turns to gaze upon me for a moment. He shakes his head and then steps out of the way.

I have heard of this! A summary trial! Drumhead justice! I am undone!

My knees turn to jelly and I start to slip down. "Please, Martin, Rodgers ... If you love me, in the heart, please, not in the face." I say this to the Marines and, crazily, I try to struggle to my feet to present my chest and try to make a good brave show of it for the sake of my crews, so they'll think well of me in years to come, though I don't know why I should care, but my mind is numb with terror and I see Jaimy ...
Good-bye, Jaimy, I loved you...
and Jared coming toward me, but someone beats them both to it.

Georgie Piggott is standing in front of me, his arms held straight out from his shoulders, all of him shaking as he faces the Captain. "You're not going to sh ... shoot her, are you, Sir?"

The Captain lets out an exasperated sigh. "What a ship...," he says under his breath. Then he says, "No, Mr. Piggott, I'm not going to shoot her. I'll let others dispose of her. Although I should shoot
you
for impertinence." He turns to the Marines. "Corporal! Take her below to the brig and keep her under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Her head is worth two hundred and fifty pounds in its current condition, and I intend to collect it. Be careful. I've heard she's a slippery one."

I am untied and thrown down into the brig.

Guess I was born to hang, after all.

I am taken and tossed down into the brig.

I look around. The bench. The ratty blanket. The chamber pot. That is all that is to be had at the Hotel
Wolverine,
except for dark despair—first it held poor Robin, then the unfortunate Mr. Luce, and now me. Corporal Martin stands guard at the door to the hatchway.

I sit down on the bench and try not to bury my face in my hands and weep, but it is hard, very hard.
What will become of me? And what will become of the Home ... oh, Lord...

I am not down there twenty minutes when I have my first visitor. It is Captain Trumbull. He clasps his hands behind him and gazes at me through the bars.

I jump to my feet. "My Letter of Marque," I say, pulling it out of my jacket front and thrusting it at him. "I believe you will find it in order, and that a grievous mistake has been made, one that has done me great harm."

He opens it up and reads it. He smiles slightly. "Very nice, but worthless," he says. "This has long since been revoked. Its only worth now is that it keeps your crew from being hanged as pirates. We are sure that when they signed on with you, they thought the Letter to be genuine."

"So everything I did will be seen as piracy and I will go to the gallows, even though I sailed in all innocence, thinking only that I was doing good for King and country?" I ask, chin up. "I, too, thought the Letter to be genuine."

"How innocent were you when you absconded with a prize ship that belonged to His Majesty? When you did not turn that ship in to the Prize Court?"

Well, there's no good answer to that, is there?
I'm thinking.
None that's gonna do me any good, that is,
so I don't reply.

"And just how innocent is this?" he says, and unfurls my Jolly Roger flag and holds it up in front of my face.

I ain't got nothin' to say to that, neither.