In The Belly Of The Bloodhound (35 page)

We break up the meeting and I stand in the Pit and look about me. The drilling proceeds at the work site. A troupe of girls dances on the Stage, both for exercise and to cover any noise we might make below. Katy and the four girls she has chosen as fellow ratters sit below the Stage and work on their equipment before they head back out on the hunt. Dorothea has taken to calling them the Dianas, and soon everybody is. All the watches are at their stations—at the hatchway, on the Stage, and four on the Balcony. All is as it should be, all is in train.

That night, I end my story.

“...[_ and the last I’ve seen of Jaimy was him standing at the rail of that ship, looking out at me as I steered the lifeboat and myself away from the scene of battle and my recent captivity. A burning hulk of a ship comes between us and I saw Jaimy no more._]

“You all know the rest—how I came back to Boston and to the school. And here I am, as we all are.”

I bow in the darkness and am gratified to hear the applause as well as more than a few stifled sobs.

When it dies down, I hear Hughie say behind me, “That was a good story, Mary. Now can you tell me one about how we used to be back with Charlie and the gang?”

Hmmm…
I think on this. Storytime has been good for the morale of the girls, and what else can fill the time till we go? The girls all sense that it will be soon and they’re getting jumpy. Can’t have that.

“All right, Hughie,” I say. “We’ll do that tomorrow night. For now, let’s everyone get some sleep.”

Sleep for them, but not for me. Not much, anyway. When I’m awakened by the watch, at two in the morning, I disengage myself from Rebecca and Annie, stand, stretch, and head down to the Rat Hole. I’m already dressed in my burglar gear and have my shiv tucked in my belt. Sally Anderson and Beatrice Cooper were awakened a half hour earlier. They light the candle and open the Rat Hole for me.

“Oh, Jacky, do be careful,” whispers Bea, placing her hand on my arm.

“I will be. You just be careful with that candle. Snuff it out as soon as I go through. Leave the screwdriver right next to the bulkhead, so when I get back I can put the boards up by feel. Then go to bed. I’ll be all right.”

I go through the Rat Hole and the light is snuffed out behind me. I feel my way through the darkness, to the door. There is no crack of light beneath it now, but that is good. I stand and put my shiv through the doorjamb and feel for the lever. When I’ve got it, I slide the thin file in above it and lift. Then I lift my shiv and the door swings open. I pull my watch cap down over my face.

I put both knife and file back in my waistband and step out into the passageway, turn right, and pace four steps to the ladder, my hands out in front of me. I touch the ladder and go up the eight steps. I stop and listen. So far no light,

no sounds. When I reach the next level, I can see a faint glowing from above. That would be moonlight filtering in through the top hatch, it being left open on this calm night for what little air it can bring down to this stifling deck. I start the twelve steps along to the ladder leading out and go by the crew’s quarters and hear them in there snoring in the hot, fetid dark.[_ Worse than the Hold,_] I’m thinking, and that place is tough to beat when it comes to stink. I pass the galley on my left and climb the ladder to the blessed outside.

I pause there to take several deep breaths of the pure, clean air, and to look up at the starlit sky, something I have not seen for a long, long time. It is so quiet that I can hear my heart pounding in my chest at the sight of it all. The moon is rising clear and bright in the east. How I did miss seeing the majesty of the heavens wheeling about me in the night…Well, enough of that. On to business.

I creep out of the hatchway and onto the deck and slink over to the cover of the anchor capstan—the huge, horizontal winch that, with the aid of eight big men on the capstan bars, pulls up the anchor when need be. By craning my neck, I can see most of the deck from here.

There’s no one up forward, which is surprising to me—on a Royal Navy ship there was always a bow lookout, no matter what the conditions. The fact that I am alone up here gives me courage to pad across the deck and to peer around the hatch that houses us girls in the Hold, and to look back at the quarterdeck. I see three men there, the first being the helmsman, intent on steering his course by the compass and not looking at much else, and two others, sitting on the edge of the quarterdeck. As I am watching, one of the men gets up, stretches, and then heads for the bow, as if to make an inspection.[_ Hmmmm…_]

I hunker down, out of sight, and watch his progress. He goes up to the foot of the bowsprit and sits himself down with a grunt.

I crouch low in the rigging and make myself observe intently for a full half hour to make sure no others are about. The man on the bow sits quiet for a bit and then I see his head slump forward on his chest and deep snores are heard. He’s fast asleep, the lazy sod.[_ Some lookout,_] the Royal Navy part of me sneers.

While I sit here, I look up at Polaris and see that it is about thirty degrees off the horizon, like one-third of the way from straight out level to straight above. A look down at the water with its islands of floating seaweed slipping by confirms my suspicions—we are in the Sargasso Sea, that region of the Atlantic above the trade winds and below the prevailing westerlies, that strange sea that is feared above all others by superstitious sailors, and there[_ is_] no other kind of sailor. Stories of ghost ships, and of ghastly apparitions, and of other weird, unexplainable things fill their tales of this place, tales they tell one another in their dark holds at night to feed one another’s darkest fears. I suspect the Captain decided to come this way because most ships avoided the Sargasso like the plague, but he would risk it to escape detection. But the sailors don’t like it, I know they don’t. And that could be good.[_ Very_] good.

I head for the starboard lifeboat.

I first check out the davits—those hooked-over crane things from which the boat is hanging. A hook goes to the bow and another to the stern, and lines run from those hooks up through the davits, to two small winches—the winches that Hughie will have to release to lower the boat. It will take some strength and I will have to drill him on it, over and over.

Now for the boat itself. Staying close to it, I feel around for how the canvas cover is attached. There is a single line, about a half-inch thick, that runs through grommets on the canvas and then around small cleats on the rail of the boat. Grommet, then cleat, grommet, then cleat, and so on along the whole length. It is not lashed all that taut, probably ‘cause they want the canvas loose enough to catch as much water as it can when it rains. Good. That means the first girl to the boat—and right now I’m thinking it’ll be Dolley-will be able to get the cover off easily, so’s the girls can tumble right in.

I pull the line off the cleats to loosen up the canvas enough so’s I can throw a leg up and over and climb in the boat. I lie there quiet for a while and then get up on my elbow and look about. Enough moonlight is coming in so I can see that there’s three sets of oars. The mast juts up through the canvas cover and the sail boom is attached to it. I can see that it’s a simple sloop rig, with a main and a jib. I’d have preferred a gaff or cat rig, but we’ll get along with this. From asking around, I’ve learned that two of the girls, Hyacinth and Cathy, have some sailing experience, them being taught pleasure-sailing by their dads and brothers, so they will be the second and third in the boat so as to get the sail up and the boat ready to steer away. There’s the main halyard right there…and the downhaul…and the mainsheet neatly coiled. Somebody on this godforsaken bark knows his job.

I crawl forward. There’s a small cuddy up at the bow—more like a cowling, really, since it ain’t got a hatch, but it should still prove useful. I feel around some more. Nothing. No tins of biscuits, no skins of water. Well, we’ll see what we can do in that regard before we go.

That’s all that can be done tonight. I must get back.

I leave the lifeboat and re-lash the canvas. I creep back across the deck to the forward hatchway and I see that the so-called lookout is still asleep. If caught, that snooze would have gotten him an even dozen lashes in the Royal Navy, and that’s in peacetime—during a time of war, maybe even a noose. Here, he just slumbers on.

I can’t resist.

I pad over to the port-side lifeboat, unsecure the canvas, and crawl inside. Might as well at least start the disabling of this boat, I’m thinking. I feel around and find the boom and the mainsheet coiled beneath it. The mainsheet is a line that goes up to a pulley on the boom, and it is used to trim the sail. Why it’s called a[_ sheet_] rather than a line is beyond me, but, hey, a lot of maritime terms don’t make any sense. ‘Cept to us sailors, of course.

I pull out my shiv and cut off the mainsheet, right at the boom. Then I sit there and tie a special knot in the end—what you do is make two loops in the line near the end and then whip the bitter end around them and end up by pushing the end through the loop that’s left and pulling it tight by opening up the opposite loop. If you whip it around three or four times, it’s called a slip noose, but if you put eight turns on it, ah, then it becomes Old Jack Hemp—the hangman’s knot. I whip it eight times.

I crawl back outside and rerig the canvas. There is no sound, except the creaking of the rigging and the snoring of the lookout. I check to make sure that no one else is about and then I creep up behind the sleeping man and gently place the noose over his head and softly place it down on his shoulders. He snorts but does not wake up. I don’t have to tighten it—this will do fine.

Time to go back to the Hold. I go to the hatch and down the first ladder and along the passageway. There’s the galley…and I peek in. There are portholes on the side and enough moonlight comes in that I can make out a teakettle on top of the stove.[_ Oh, for a cup of tea…My_] greed overcomes me and I tiptoe over to it and pull off the lid and stick my nose in.[_ Ahhh…it’s still warm, it’s-_]

Uh-oh…Someone’s coming! Footsteps are coming from the sleeping berth!

I put back the lid, drop to the floor, roll under the stove, and hold my breath.

A man walks in and I hear him strike a flint, then a lamp is lit, flooding the room with light. I see his feet shuffling around not two yards from me. He grumbles and I hear him opening the stove door and shoving in sticks of wood. The fire within starts to crackle. There’s more clattering of metal cups and pots and two more sets of feet come into the galley.

“Tea up yet, Cookie?” comes a thick voice.

“Arf a mo, Mick,” says Cookie, which in Cockney means[_ in a minute._]

“Um,”
says Mick, settling himself down on a bench. I scootch as far back under as I can. “Bloody watches, disturbing a man’s sleep for no reason. Out in the middle o’ the goddamn ocean.”

I can see Mick’s legs and knees from under the stove—if he took a mind to bend down, he could see me as well.[_ Damn! I could have been back in my kip by now if I hadn’t—_]

“Is that Carruthers up yet?” asks a voice I recognize as Keefe’s. “He’s s’posed to be on helm.”

“I give ‘im a shake,” says Mick. “That’s as close as I’ll get to that cove.”

“Tea’s up.”

“Thanks, Cookie.”

There is the sound of tea being poured into tin cups and slurped. Then there is a sudden movement and a face bends down under the stove to peer at me. I stiffen, but it is not a human face, no, it is the face of a very curious cat. It comes up to me, nose to nose, and sniffs.

Nice pussy,
I mouth silently as I stroke the fur on her back just in front of her tail, that spot where all cats love to be scratched. She purrs…Not[_ so loud, pussy, please…_]

“What’s to eat?”

“Just some johnnycake, is all, and don’t complain. I do what I can.”

“Well, let’s have it, then.” Sounds of munching. Oh,[_ what I would do for some johnnycake,_] I think, drooling in spite of my precarious position.

Another set of feet enters the room. “Gimme somethin’, and be quick about it,” the owner of the feet growls, and there is more rattling of mess gear. Keefe’s own feet move to the other side of the kitchen. I think I recognize the growling voice. “Damn head still hurts from where that bitch hit me. If I ever find out which one it was, I’ll kill ‘er, don’t care what the Cap’n says, the filthy sod.” Yep, Carruthers is the cove who tried to nab Annie, for sure.

Cookie chuckles, then says, “Prolly was that Jacky girl, I’ll bet. She’s a real pistol, she is.” It’s plain that Cookie ain’t afraid of Carruthers like Mick and Keefe are. Every ship has to have its bully, and I’m thinkin’ this bloke is the[_ Bloodhound’s_] very own specimen of the breed.

“She’ll be a dead pistol if I get aholt of ‘er. I wouldn’t even do ‘er before I kilt ‘er. Just take a club and smash ‘er bleedin’ head in, see ‘ow she likes it done to her,” he says.

“Now, now, Eben,” says the cook, “then she wouldn’t be able to do her little dance now, would she?”

There follows a lively discussion of the charms of my various parts that makes my face flush under the watch cap.[_ Men, I swear…_]

But not all seem to appreciate my essential loveliness.

“I seen ‘er do her little act. Warn’t worth watchin’...scrawny little midget,” says Carruthers, rather uncharitably, I’m thinking. “Now that blondie, if she ever does somethin’ like that, you come and tell me quick or I’ll kick both yer asses.”

“Jacky did say that blondie was itching for a bath on the deck. Coo, wouldn’t that be somethin. Make this damned trip almost worthwhile,” says Keefe.

“Jacky
is it, now?” sneers Carruthers. “Sounds like our Keefie ‘as made himself a little friend.”

“Jacky ain’t so bad,” says Mick in my defense. “Just wish she hadn’t said that thing about the Captain killin’ us all when we get over there. And me poor body in the water and all…I ain’t afraid of dyin’ ‘cause a seaman’s a fool if he don’t know that ‘e might end up down there wi’ Davy Jones someday…But when she said that thing about the crabs nippin’ off me privates, well, that made it real personal-like…Wrecked me slumbers, it has.”