Under the Jolly Roger: Being an Account of the Further Nautical Adventures of Jacky Faber (7 page)

I look around for the owner of the voice, but I can single no one out. I shall have to find out. Perhaps it will be another friend, and I know I will need all the friends I can muster.

"A Midshipman, hey?" He looks amused. "Then let's see what you know, Midshipman. What is the procedure for getting under way and standing before the wind?"

Well, ain't I seen that done a hundred times, standing on the quarterdeck with my drum? Ain't I heard the
Dolphin
's middies recite this a hundred times for Captain Locke, the sweat pouring out from under their caps as they squirmed under his gaze? I put my hands behind me in Parade Rest and I start:

"Sir. Make all preparations for getting under way, heave in, and make sail as before. Lay the main and mizzen topsails square aback; the fore one sharp aback, according to the side it is intended to cast—heave in, cant her the right way with the helm before tripping, and as soon as the velocity of the stern board is greater than that of the tide, shift the helm, grapple the buoy, run up the jib as soon as it will take, and haul aft the weather sheet. While falling off, cat and fish the anchor, as she gathers headway, shift the helm: When before the wind, right it, square the head yards, and brail up the jib—set topgallant sails, royals, and foresail—haul taut the lifts, trusses, and backstay falls, and, if necessary, set the scudding sails."

Then I pause. Then, in conclusion, I say, "Sir."

The Captain sneers off in the direction of four boys of various ages standing off to the side dressed as midshipmen and looking confused and abashed.

"Hear that, my fine midshipmen?" They don't say anything, they just look at their feet or straight ahead, depending on how old they are. The Captain turns his attention back to me.

"So you are that one, then, that one who is the talk of the fleet?" asks the Captain, beaming. "Yes, Midshipman would definitely be better. No problem with fraternization with the lower decks then. Good, good," he says, nodding. "Mr. Pinkham! Write her in as Midshipman Jack Faber. If Locke could do it, so can I, by God!"

Then, suddenly, as if all this shouting had broken something inside him, he groans and grabs his side. "Send for Earweg," he wheezes, doubling over. "I need my medicine! Now!"

He staggers to the hatchway, which must lead to his cabin, but before he goes down, he turns and gasps, "Take her below, fit her out, and mark me, every last one of you dogs—nobody lays a hand on her, d'ye hear? Captain Abraham Scroggs will not have soiled goods!" The silence on this ship is such that all hear his words very plain.

In a few moments, I'm taken down a ladder and into the midshipmen's berth and the four of them stand there lookin' at me standing there shivering in my silks.

"Date of rank," I say, lookin' about the dim interior for something to cover myself with.

They are confused. "What? We..."

"When were you made midshipmen is what I mean." I'm losing patience. I'm cold and getting very cranky.

The oldest of the lot, a likely looking boy of about sixteen, clears his throat and nervously says, "We were all brought aboard about a month ago and—"

"So that makes me Senior Midshipman, then," I says, cutting him off cruelly. "So get me a blanket and be quick about it, boy. And where's my bunk?"
Sorry, lad, but I've got to establish myself right off.

He is startled by my rudeness, but he stifles his anger and says, "Here." He goes over and opens a door to a closet-sized room, and he stands back and I go in and look about. A bed, with drawers underneath. A dry sink and basin. Some hooks on the wall. That's it, but I've seen worse, and tired as I am, it looks like home to me.

A knock on the side of the cabin and a hand holds out a blanket to me. I take it, close the door behind me, and strip off my poor silks. I hang them on the hooks in hopes they'll dry in some sort of shape. I towel off with the blanket and rub myself briskly to take out some of the cold. After a little while my skin starts to pink up and I stop shivering so violently.

Then I wrap the blanket about me and step back out into the midshipmen's berth. There is a table and some chairs and an open hatch overhead letting in the air. At least we shan't suffocate on days when it ain't raining.

"What have you got for me to wear?" I say, sitting down at the table. I know I must present a comely sight, my hair plastered to my head, made thick with the salt water, and my nose red and running, my feet all veiny and blue. "Is there any hot tea?" Then I sneeze a fine spray of mist all over the table.

The older boy jerks his head at the littlest boy, who ducks his head and scurries out. The rest of them stare at me. Aside from the older boy, there are two who seem to be of the same age, that being about twelve.

"I'll need drawers, a shirt, trousers, and a jacket. And stockings. My boots will serve me for shoes. A cap, if one can be found," I say. "And the loan of a comb and some ribbon to tie back my hair."

The younger ones scurry into their cubbyholes and come out with the drawers, shirt, pants, stockings, and other items. The older boy goes into his room and comes out with a black midshipman's jacket. "I have grown out of it, and I will take great pleasure if you will accept it. We will have to share the comb."

Hmmm. Courtly. Has manners. Here's a likely one, maybe.

"And what is your name, Sir?" I ask.

He bows and says, "Robin. Robin Raeburne, at your service, Miss, and I am sorry for your recent troubles." He has dark, curly, reddish brown hair, and a fine straight nose, good chin, with a high, clear, and intelligent forehead. He's probably a Scot with that name and that hair.

I give a slight dip by way of an answer to his bow and say, "Don't be. I brought it on myself, as usual."

The small boy comes back in, bearing a mug of steaming tea. He seems to be all of eight years old, his black midshipman's jacket hanging rather loosely on him. Comically loose. He hands the cup to me with both hands, slightly shaking so that some of the tea sloshes out over his hands.

I take the cup and gratefully bring it to my lips. "Ahhh." I breathe as the hot liquid goes down my throat, warming me. "And you, young sir. What is your name?" He is short, round in the face, and blond. His ice blue eyes are open in unabashed wonder.

"Georgie Piggott, Miss," he pipes. "And are you really the girl in the book?"

Oh, Lord.

I sigh and say that I suppose I am, but you shouldn't believe everything you read. The other two squeakers are looking at me in wonder, too. I raise my eyebrows in question at them and one says, "Ned Barrows, Mum," and the other says, "Tom Wheeler."

Ned is a dark-haired boy, with thick curls close to his head, and an open face—cheerful, honest, and slightly pug-nosed. Tom is blondish, with his hair hanging to his shoulders, and he has blue eyes, and a foxy, inquisitive face. Ned is sturdy, while Tom is slight. Again, I place them both at the age of twelve and it is plain that they are close friends.

"Fine. What's for dinner?"

Dinner turns out to be simple seamen's rations—salt pork, biscuit, and pease porridge—brought on a tray by a sullen sailor who dumps the stuff on the table without a word. As he leaves, I give the sailor a look that says,
We'll be taking care of that attitude in the future, mark me, man.

We turn to and I tap my biscuit and sure enough several weevils fall out. I brush them off the table and take a bite of the biscuit, taking care to see what the bite exposed in the way of further bugs. Not too bad, I notice. Then I tuck into the salt pork, using my fingers, as I have no knife. Not yet I don't. The three younger ones regard me with unwavering stares. Robin, however, just looks quiet and withdrawn. Sullen, even. You'd think he'd be delighted by being presented with the close company of what has already proved to be a frolicsome young dame, but he ain't. Maybe he's just shy, or maybe I just look too ratty.

"Best tuck in, Mates," I say, "never can tell when next you'll eat again." That bowl of pease porridge—I ain't shy about putting that away, either. Nothing like a brisk swim for the appetite. "So who's got what watch? Are we One-in-Three, then?"

Robin shakes his head. "We don't stand watches. We don't know enough yet. And we haven't been taught anything." His face flames in humiliation. And now, in addition to his previous unhappiness, he is being replaced as Senior Midshipman by a girl.

"Aye, Miss, it's horrible here!" blurts out Georgie. "The Captain..."

But Robin flashes him a warning look and puts his finger to his lips and looks up to the open hatch, where I almost hear the ears flapping. There are no secrets on a ship, and Robin, at least, knows that.

"Good advice, young George," I say, and remove my hand from beneath my blanket and place my hand on his sleeve. "Don't worry, Georgie, I'll find the way of things around here right quick." A bare female shoulder and arm probably ain't the best thing to be presenting to these boys and this young man right now, so I pull my arm back and clutch the blanket around my neck once more.

I signal for a rag to wipe my hands and Ned and Tom trip over each other in finding me one. "Well, we shall see about the watches and the education, too," I say, and rise. "Where's the Watch, Quarter, and Station Bill?"

"I believe Mr. Pelham keeps it, Miss," says Robin. "He's the Second Mate."

"Then we'll have a look at it come morning, Mr. Raeburne," I say. He nods. I look up through the hatch and see that it has gotten quite dark. That bed in there calls me.

"Well, I thank you gentlemen for the use of your clothes. If you'll excuse me..." With that I scoop up the pile of clothing and pad back to my room. "Oh, and I'll need several pitchers of water. Hot water."

***

I've wiped the salt off me as best I can with a cloth dipped in the hot water and I've stuck my head down into the basin and rinsed my hair. It's still a tangled mess, but at least it's clean. I work at it with Robin's comb, after I wash it off—it's tough, but I get it done.

Robin had also given me one of his old shirts to use as a nightdress and I put it on and lace it up. It will serve, though it only comes down to just above my knees.

Sticking my head out the door, I call out, "Mr. Barrows. Mr. Wheeler. Go back up on deck and see if you can find my boots." I hear them scurrying out, eager to please. It's nice being senior, and it's well that I assert my authority right off, no matter what else is going to happen to me.

I'm considering curling up in bed and allowing myself a few tears of self-pity as I sit back down and think about things. ... What's going to happen to me? I mean, it sure doesn't look good for my future as a maiden, that's for certain. What will I do if the Captain has me taken into his cabin and just orders me to strip down and climb in his bed? He's the Captain—no one would stop him. What if the order comes right now? What could I do? The ship's too far out now for me to swim to shore—and it's dark, too, and getting cold.

Plus, there's something in me, and I know it's stupid, but there's something in me that doesn't want to desert after bein' signed on official-like.

I know I'm in deep trouble here, but maybe, just maybe, as I am now read in as a member of the ship's company, that fact will accord me some rights. Especially if I act like I really
am
a member of the crew, instead of the way they expect me to act, which is like a whining, scared girl. Scared I am, and certainly given to whining, cajoling, wailing, begging, pleading,
anything
to get out of a fix. But somehow I don't think all that's gonna work here. All I can do is start acting like I belong here, like it's natural. I must start acting like the ranking Midshipman. Starting first thing in the morning. I resolve to get up early to embark on this plan. Very early.

They expect me to hide, so I shall not hide. I shall make myself
very
visible. It is not much of a plan, but it is a plan, and, as usual, I feel a little better for having one. I turn on my side and, bringing my knees to my chin and hugging my legs to my chest, I go to sleep.

James Emerson Fletcher
9 Brattle Lane
London, England
September 6, 1804

Miss Jacky Faber
Somewhere in the World

Dear Wild and Stupid Girl,

I am going to continue to write you, Jacky, even though I have not the foggiest idea where you are or where to send these letters or whether you shall ever read them. I am doing it in this manner for several reasons: One, it preserves some sort of communication between us, a spiritual one if you will; and two, it helps calm my raging mind. The third reason is that I hope that we might be reunited soon to enjoy a good laugh over these words.

The girl at the track? Lovely, wasn't she? She is my cousin Emily, my uncle Jemmy's girl. We grew up together, not four doors apart on Brattle Lane. We played together as children
and now she is a delightful girl of sixteen who enjoys pretending that I am her amorous escort when we are out and about. I suppose she does this to drive the other young men viewing us crazy with envy. I believe she is using me for practice and it is to my discredit that I rather enjoyed the game. I had thought it a harmless diversion, but I was wrong. You really would have enjoyed her company if you weren't so damned impulsive. But, then, that's not your way, is it, Jacky? Oh no—look but never think; oh no, never to think but only to plunge. Have you ever considered how much more pleasant your life would be if you just stayed in a damned dress once in a while and didn't ... oh, to hell with it!

I am sure you have just gone off to sulk and I will find you soon and all will be explained and all will be well.

I am in port to study for my lieutenancy exams. How I will be able to face a board of post captains and admirals with your foolish self on my mind, I do not know, but I will try.

Still your humble and etc....

Jaimy

The next morning, when I hear the bell ring Five Bells in the Four-to-Eight watch, I throw back the covers and make myself get out of bed and go splash the cold water from the pitcher on my face, take care of the necessaries, comb my hair, and begin to dress. It is six thirty in the morning.