"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?
I talk to Ned for a bit about the set of the sails and such. Being on these watches has been good for the boys. For Ned and Tom, that is. Georgie, being too little to stand watches, gets no benefit and thus is still without joy. Ned and Tom, being close in age, have each other. Georgie has no one, 'cept maybe me, and I ain't very available just now.
The Messenger of the Watch is standing at the starboard rail, just off the quarterdeck. I go to him and say, "Have the ship's boy, Tucker, lay to the quarterdeck." He knuckles his brow and heads off. Soon Tucker comes swaggering down the deck.
"Yes, Miss Faber?" he asks, grinning.
"You know Midshipman Piggott, do you not?" I say.
"Hard for me not to know him, Miss, as he's powder boy with me in your division."
Such cheek.
"Very well, then, I am going to tell you something. Mr. Piggott is going to be demoted to ship's boy. I want you and Eli and Tremendous to welcome him into your company. I do not want him given any special treatment, but I do not want you to be cruel to him, either. Do you understand, Tucker?"
He nods.
I turn again to the messenger. "Go get Mr. Piggott. He'll be in the midshipmen's berth." He's off again.
In a few minutes, he's back with a mystified Georgie.
"Georgie," I say, "take off your jacket."
He does it.
I put on the Look and say, "You are being demoted to ship's boy. You may go collect your things from the midshipmen's berth. You will string your hammock with the rest of the ship's boys and you will mess with the crew."
His jaw drops and his eyes fill with tears. "Jacky ... what..."
"That's Lieutenant Faber, Piggott. You mind your manners. This is Tucker. He will show you the way of things. Dismissed."
Tucker comes up to him and puts his arm around his shoulders and says, "C'mon, Georgie, let's get your stuff and then we'll go up to the foretop and meet E
li and Tremendous, your new mates," and they are gone. God bless ship's boys.
Ned, standing behind me with the long glass in the crook of his arm, has watched all this and now looks at me with not much love in his eyes. "That was cruel, Lieutenant Faber," he says.
I should say nothing—Never Complain, Never Explain— but I can't afford to lose the middies as my friends, so I say, "Nay, Mr. Barrows. I did not mean to be cruel. I just want him to have some time to be a boy, before he has to stand up and be a man."
An hour later, pretending again to hear the Captain's hail from the speaking tube, I again go over and place my ear upon it and pretend to listen.
"Yes, Sir," I say into it when I straighten up. I advance to the edge of the quarterdeck and say to the Bo'sun's Mate of the Watch, "Muster the gun crews for practice."
I run them hard, over and over, till every back is slippery with sweat, till every man wishes me dead a hundred times over, until, finally, each man knows his job.
As we secure from the exercise, I hear it whispered for the first time:
The Captain's whore...
I have the Midwatch that night, and as I stand there, I think, What if the officers don't come back, ever? What shall I do? The Captain ain't gonna last forever in the state he's in now, that's for sure. True, the days and nights have been cool, but three more days is the best I can hope for before he really starts in to stinkin'.
I must plan. I must turn this to my advantage, somehow. But how? Once again, I see the flashing light on the shore, and I wonder at it.
I think far into the night, and by the time I am relieved, I have a plan.
Chapter 15
The next morning I'm up at the break of dawn and ready to do or die. I let the men enjoy their breakfast and then I order them to Quarters to exercise the guns again and I leave the deck to Tom.
The first part of my plan is simple: Get them used to taking orders from me. Even though they might think the orders are from the Captain and are merely being repeated by his whore, the orders still will be issued by me.
I had started on that course yesterday when it came time to come about to start our southern leg. It was on my watch, me having the First Dog, and I bellowed out, "All hands aloft to make sail!" and all the topmen climbed into the rigging and I gave the command for the helm to be put over, "Left full rudder!" and the ship started her turn and I yelled, "Helm's alee!" and the bow crossed the wind and the sails shook but gathered and stiffened as the wind shifted to the other side, and still we turned, from being close-hauled, to a beam reach, to a quarter reach, to running down wind.
The topmen did their job, adjusting the square sails to their new positions, whipping the triangular fore-and-aft sails to catch the wind on the other tack. They all came down and everything was fine with the set of the sails ... except a corner of the main royal was shaking, luffing-like.
"You there," I say to a sailor on the deck. It is Bishop, a seaman in Third Division. "Be so good as to run up and take that luff out of the main royal."
Bishop decides to be a wise ass. He lifts his hands helplessly. "Take the what out of what?" He looks around to see if his mates appreciate his humor. They do, chortling away behind their hands. "Oh no, Miss, we can't do that, it's much too far out on that scary yard to fix that awful, awful luff!"
So.
I toe out of my boots and leap into the rigging. "You will follow me up and I will show you how to do it," I shout. "If you are unable to follow me up, you will become the oldest ship's boy on this bark!"
I think he suddenly realizes his mistake, and he seeks to make it better by beating me up there, but there ain't no sailor alive who can catch Jacky Faber in the rigging and I'm out on the royal yard way ahead of him. I wrap my legs around the yard and am pulling the line taut as he comes out.
The sail stops shaking.
"There," I say, slapping a few half hitches on the line and pulling it tight. "That's how the job is done. I'll see you down on the deck." With that I stand and leap off the spar into the air. My hands find the main buntline and I swing around it and then go hand over hand back down to the deck. He comes down a little later by the usual way.
"What's your name and rating?" I demand when he arrives, even though I know it.
"Bishop, Miss," he says, miserably, "rated Able."
"Able?" I exclaim. "And still you couldn't do that simple thing, and in calm weather, yet? What kind of sailor are you?"
"Sorry, Miss ... I guess I was just..."
"Just making fun of me, Bishop, is what you were doing," I say. "Do it again and I'll have you busted down to cook's helper. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Miss Faber."
I took no joy in shaming him, but I had to do it.
When all the men are on station for gunnery practice, I go down into the Captain's cabin and stand there for a while marking time and making noises like he and I are having another conversation. When I come back out, I back out the door saluting and saying, "Yes, Sir, it shall be done!"
I close the door, turn around, and give the order. "Load your guns with live powder and report when ready!"
I hear exclamations of surprise as they go to do it.
Of course, my good old First Division is ready first, but the others are not too far behind.
I call Jared to the quarterdeck. He lifts an eyebrow in question when he arrives, but I don't say anything to him. Instead I go up to Ned and say, "Mr. Barrows, the Captain intends to have some live gunnery practice. We want you to take the ship out to sea, so we cannot be seen or heard from the land. When we get out there, I want you to drop over a barrel as a target. Seaman Jared here will be the Bo'sun's Mate of the Watch and he will help you. Do you understand?" Ned gulps and nods yes. Jared looks at me with a knowing eye and winks.
Jared leans over Ned and whispers, "All topmen aloft to make sail."
"All topmen aloft to make sail!" squeaks out Ned. Jared nods at me and I leave the quarterdeck to supervise the gunnery. I am, after all, the Assistant Gunnery Officer.
The barrel sits out there about fifty yards abaft the port beam. First I go to my old First Division. "Harkness, fire your guns as they bear."
He grins and leans over Number One. He pulls the lanyard and the gun roars out. We watch. Not bad. About twelve yards wide. He goes to Number Three, squints over it, ratchets left two and pulls the lanyard.
"Good shot!" I say. The ball goes over the barrel at a height of about six feet and splashes in the sea beyond. "If that had been a ship, it would have been hit! Cease fire! Let's give some others a shot." With that I pull out the Captain's pocket watch and press the wand. "Now, let's see how fast you can reload!" But the crew of Number One has already started, and the Number Three's are not far behind.
I see Georgie hauling his bag of powder, but he will not look at me. It hurts me, but I let it go.
Then I have the port quarter guns fire. They are wide and they are high, and sometimes, when they don't gauge the roll of the ship just right, the ball plows into the ocean well short of its target. But I shout encouragement and I clock the time it takes them to reload. So far Division One can do it in under two minutes. It takes the quarter guns four. But they are coming along.
I have them shoot out all their charges and cease their fire upon reloading. My ears are ringing from the noise.
I catch the eye of Ned on the quarterdeck and make a circular motion with my finger in the air and Jared says something to Ned and he says, "Left rudder! Topmen make sail!" and the Wolverine swings around and the starboard guns now bear.
These starboard divisions crews have not yet fired live charges, so I take some extra time to make sure no one is being stupid and standing behind the guns to get hit by the recoil, as I want no one to be hurt. When I am satisfied, I let Robin's starboard division have the first shots under John Harper's supervision, Robin still being in the brig, of course. The guns bark out. Again, clean misses, but I am not as concerned with that as with how fast they can reload. They
try their best, all of them.
Then there's the starboard quarter guns. "Shaughnessy. Fire as they bear." Their results are similar.
After all have had their turns, and the clouds of powder smoke thin out and drift away, I get up on Three Hatch and say, "All reload and hold fire. Do not set the matchlocks. We will leave the guns loaded. Secure from gunnery practice. Well done, Werewolves, all of you."
It occurs to me that it is Sunday. "Commence holiday routine. An extra tot for all at the noon meal." Whether they think that order comes from the Captain or from the Captain's whore, they ain't arguing with it.
***
With lunch, Higgins brings me my clothes, cleaned, ironed, and neatly folded. I thank him and he asks if he might take my jacket for a bit of cleaning and brushing and I give it to him. The day is warm and I plan to ask Drake for a swordsmanship lesson.
Drake has gotten the boys to the point of instructing them in saber, since that's mostly what they'll be doing in the way of sword work—boarding other ships and hacking and hewing at the enemy. On the Field of Honor, the duels between gentlemen, swords have largely been replaced in favor of pistols, and I think it's a pity. With swords, you go at each other for a while, and when blood is drawn, honor is satisfied. Then everyone goes off to have a drink and brag about how brave they were, with maybe a saucy scar to show for it. A bullet is so ... final.
Gentlemen still carry swords, of course—they wouldn't feel dressed without them—but they're mostly for self-protection and sort of spur-of-the-moment arguments. I think of Randall Trevelyne and his friends back in Boston, swaggering around with their scabbards clanking on their hips. Hmmmm ... Randall Trevelyne, you proud and arrogant but undeniably beautiful young man, what are you up to now? No, no, get out of my mind, I'm going to live single all of my life, and that's best.