In The Belly Of The Bloodhound (36 page)

“What thing did she say about the Captain killin’ us?” demands Carruthers. I’m surprised he didn’t know yet.[_ Shame on you, Mick, for not planting my little worm of doubt more quickly throughout the crew_]

“She said that the Captain planned on killing us when we got to Africa so’s we couldn’t blab about taking these high-toned girls and get Simon and the rest of ‘em hanged. Said the Captain and Dunphy and Chubbuck was the only ones on board with guns and swords to do the killin’ when the time came. That’s what she said.”

“Hmmm…,”
says Carruthers.

“And that girl sayin’ she saw a black ghost walk through the side o’ the ship last night. I ain’t had a peaceful moment since, I ain’t,” whines Keefe. “This is me and Mick’s first time on a slaver and we both vow it’ll be our last, if we lives through it.”

“Yer both a pair o’ cowardly scrubs, y’are, afraid o’ yer own shadows,” says Eben Carruthers, his voice full of scorn. “But the thing about weapons, well, we’ll have to see about that.”

The cat chooses this time to give out with a loud[_ meow._]

Damn!

“What you got under there, Jezebel?” asks Cookie. “A nice fat rat? Let’s see…” He starts to bend down for a look.[_ “Yowwwwwweeeee!”_]

There is a shriek from outside. ‘Tis plain the lookout has awakened to find his special neckwear, and none too soon, neither. Cookie straightens back up and all four men pound out to see what the matter is.

I roll out from under the stove, grab a piece of johnnycake, and start to head back down to the bottom of the ship and safety. The traitorous Jezebel carefully arranges her paws beneath her and watches me go, without further comment.

Sally and Bea have waited up for me, and together we get the boards back up in no time at all.

“Here,” I say, finding their hands and passing each of them a piece of the cake.

“What is it?”

“Johnnycake. Not enough to divide with the rest. Consider it a small reward for your constancy.”

“Ummmm.”

Lt. James Emerson Fletcher

The Pig and Whistle

State Street

Boston, Massachusetts,
USA

June 17, 1806

Miss Jacky Faber

Somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean

My Dearest Jacky,

I take comfort in writing these words to you in the hope that you will someday read them and excuse my poor, stiff prose. I am a seaman and not a man of letters, as you well know.

Here are things as they now stand:

Higgins continues to be the rock upon which we place all our hopes. He is tireless in his investigations of your disappearance and has actually come up with even further proof that a kidnapping occurred, as opposed to a tragic accident. He called upon me one day not long past and bade me to accompany him again to view the evidence held at the courthouse. I shall put it in his words:

“You, see, Sir, most of these purses, which undeniably belong to some of the girls”—the sad, sodden purses and shawls and other personal items were lined up on a shelf in the basement of said courthouse—”have one thing in common. They are open, and they were open when they were found. I know, because I was here when they were brought in. Now, in the past, I have been in service to a number of families, and there is one thing I am sure of. When a woman or a girl finishes retrieving something from her purse, she snaps the clasp shut. Highborn or low, lady or servant, it does not matter. Almost all of these purses were open—as if rough sailors, ordered to strip them from the girls and throw them overboard as evidence of the young ladies’ destruction, could not resist opening them to see if they contained anything of value.”

As I have said, Higgins is invaluable. A keener mind I have never before encountered. It is very lucky that he is here in this place, for aside from his investigations and observations so far, he was instrumental in averting a true injustice. I know that it would distress you to know this, and perhaps it is fortunate that you do not—Mistress Pimm was brought up on charges.

She was taken before a Court of Inquiry concerning the loss of virtually her entire student body and placed in the Dock of the Court. Many of the parents of the lost girls are so distraught that they felt they must find someone to blame for the tragedy. It is to Mistress Pimm’s credit that she stood there, black-clad and silent, her face composed and her back ramrod straight. She then told her story in a firm, unquavering voice, but it was not enough. The parents, led by those of one Elspeth Goodwin, demanded more, and John Higgins ascended to the Dock and gave it to them. He meticulously stated the case, fact by fact, supporting his certainty that you and your companions were kidnapped by dastardly slavers and were not dead. With Higgins’s testimony, Mistress Pimm survived the ordeal, and the parents, I believe, were given some hope.

Higgins has observed me writing these words to you and has asked that I send you his best wishes and hopes that you are keeping yourself safe and not being overly impulsive. I told him I believed the last of his wishes to be a vain hope, and he was forced to concur.

Henry Hoffman is now based in New York. He has established lines of communication to all the mid-Atlantic ports and waits eagerly for news. It is my devout hope that his waiting is not in vain. General Howe continues to scour the southern ports and seas for word of his daughter and the others.

Randall Trevelyne comes often to The Pig to inquire after any news, and we have taken dinner together many times. It is easy to see why you were attracted to him, and believe me, Jacky, I am not stupid. I know you were drawn to him, so do not say nay—he is polished, well-mannered, has an excellent singing voice, and is self-assured in all social settings. Though he is rash and impulsive, he cuts a gallant figure—he is, as the Bard would have it, “the glass of fashion and the mold of form”—in short, everything I am not. He is quick to take offense and has drawn his sword on more than one occasion. But not against me—rest easy, Jacky, as we are friends. He talks of his impatience to get into battle, and I try to disabuse him of this notion, but he is obstinate. He cannot seem to get it out of his head that you, a mere female, have been in combat many times and that he has not. I point out to him that your being in grave danger in those situations was just an unfortunate string of events, but he feels that this in no way exempts him from the necessity of being tested in battle. It is equally unfortunate on a global scale that things are heating up between our two countries and that Randall and I, who now sit and eat and drink together, could yet end up on opposite sides of a great battle, each trying to kill the other. Why we, the British and the Americans, who share a common language and heritage and who are so much alike, must find reasons to fight each other is astounding to me. Stupid politics is all it is, and beyond my understanding. In any case, as regards Randall Trevelyne, if indeed, you do make it back to us, I will let you choose and not hold you to your former promise.

Your Most Affectionate and etc….etc.,

Jaimy

We are into the powder magazine. All the holes had been drilled, right next to each other on the lines of the traced square, and I took my shiv and cut down through the few splinters that were still holding the wooden square in place, and it fell forward into our hands. Carefully putting it aside, we now look in, but since I have forbidden candles near this spot, all we can make out in the gloom under the Stage are fat bags of powder crowded up next to the newly named Powder Hole. Some of them appear to have been punctured. To the side of the bags is darkness.

Hmmm,
I say to myself,[_ let’s see what else is in there._]
p. First things first, though. “Bea, get me a rag. That’s one of mine hanging right there. Thanks.”

Of course, there’s rags and petticoats and drawers hanging all about down here under the Stage, drying from their last cleaning, but I can’t take anyone else’s stuff. I gotta say, though, as I sniff the rag that is handed to me, the laundry soap we got from the storeroom has gone a long way in helping us stay neat and tidy.

I rip my rag in little strips and use them to plug up the holes that our drill bit has made in several bags. I get the nearby girls to scoop up the powder that had spilled on our side and then we dump it back into the magazine, as we can’t be caught with any of that stuff over here. Cups of salt water are brought up from the clean tub and the residue washed away and down through the slats. Good. All clean, and maybe the rats will like the flavor.

That done, I feel around the bags and find that there is a more open space to the left side. I reach my hand in and freeze. I have touched something smooth. It feels like a metal canister of some kind. Could it be a bomb? An explosive shell? I pick it up very, very carefully and bring it out into the dim light.

It’s not metal at all. It is a bottle, and on it is a label. I read it and a grin spreads across my face. “Hey, Mam’selle,” I say to Lissette, who is crouched nearby, at my left hand. “Do the words Côte[_ du Rhône_] mean anything to you?”

She comes over on hands and knees to gaze in wonder at the wine bottle. “Ah,[_ mon amie,_] I was born there,” she says in wonder and joy.

We take two more bottles from the stash and place them in Lissette’s lap for her to lovingly run her fingers over them—it’s plain that the Captain chose to store his wine there in the most heavily locked space on the ship, where no one could get at it.[_ Right…_]

We then close the safety boards over the Powder Hole and take down the boards from the Rat Hole. I’m about to go through, when Katy leans down and whispers,[_ “See if’n there’s any glue in there. If there is, get it and bring out five more of them battens.”_] I nod, knowing Katy well enough not to question her. I go in with a candle and the wedge for the door. I stand up, stick the wedge under the door, and look around. First, I find what I came in for—the smallest auger, to use as a corkscrew—then I look about for glue. On a low shelf, there is a pot with a brush handle sticking out of a slot in its cover. I pick it up and sniff. Sure enough, it’s rabbit’s-skin glue—and fresh enough, from the smell. I grab five more battens and shove everything through, then take myself out, pull the string to retrieve the wedge, and put the boards back up.

As if on cue from the stage of one of Mr. Fennel’s and Mr. Bean’s theatrical productions in Boston comes word from above…

“Bag down.”

There are eight fat millers in this batch. We whisper the news of the upcoming feast from girl to girl, and thirty-two tin cups are brought down and placed in a row. I pull the first cork and pass it to Lissette. She sniffs it and her eyes roll back and she nods and sticks the red end of it in her mouth and sucks on it.[_ Ummmm…_] Funny how that word is the same in both French and English—or any language, for that matter. I’ve even heard dogs use it to express joy and contentment.

I pour a bit into each cup till the bottle is empty and then do the next bottle—it’s a Burgundy, but I don’t think the girls will mind the blend. Finally the last, another Côte du Rhône, and each girl has almost three ounces in her cup.

There is yet another treat: I had gone out last night for just a short run across to the other storeroom in the lower passageway, the one that held the ship’s basic foodstuffs. I felt around in the darkness and found what I suspected was a tin of soda crackers and brought it back with me. I was right in my suspicion. We’ll take some of these with us in the boat, if we can, so there will be something in the way of food—I hadn’t yet figured out a way to carry water, though, and that had worried me, but not anymore.

I retrieve the tin from the hidey-hole and count out two crackers for each girl and place them beside each cup. There are six girls on watch—one at the gate, one at the edge of the Stage, and four lookouts on the Balcony. Their shares are put aside till they are relieved.

I replace the tin in the hiding spot and put the empty bottles there as well. Dolley has my shiv and has cut up the millers into small parts. Many of the girls now partake of the nearly daily feast.

“All right, now,” I say, then hands reach out and soon nothing is heard except gasps of ecstasy over the fine wine and the common crackers and the crispy, crackly miller meat.

I take a sip of my wine and let it sit on my tongue for a while before swallowing, my eyes closed. Oh,[_ joy…I_] let out a small moan and have a bite of cracker and another tiny sip.[_ Ummmm._] I snare a choice miller back leg and make short work of that. I know my sisters would agree with me that this is truly the very finest of feasts.

Pausing in the glory of my gluttony, I notice Constance Howell kneeling and holding her cup and looking in at[_ its_] contents. I can see that she is struggling with herself.

“Go ahead and drink it, Connie. God hasn’t put that wine before you to tempt you. He has given it to you to sustain you,” I say to her. “Consider it a sacrament, ‘cause that’s what it is.”

I’m thinkin’ of bolstering this argument by reminding her that Jesus, His Own Holy Self, had poured a good deal of the fruit of the vine down His Own Holy Neck during His tour of duty on Earth, and even changed some water into wine to make up for a lack of it one time—at a wedding, I think it was.

But I don’t have to. She takes a sip, then gets up, collecting her crackers and the cup and crackers next to hers. I know they are for Elspeth and I thank her for it, silently, of course, for I know that Connie Howell doesn’t want to hear anything in the way of moral guidance from Jacky Faber, that’s for sure.

The luncheon is finished. We ate and drank in a leisurely way, at the same time knowing, however, that if we heard a[_ Lord, save us!_] from above, we would have had to dump everything in the necessary tub to escape detection, but it didn’t happen. We cleaned up, disposed of the few bones not chewed up and swallowed, and got down to the work of the day.

In addition to the ongoing classes in French, Dance, Science, and Chorus, there is now a class in Fundamentals of Sailing, conducted by the Misses Catherine Lowell and Hyacinth Saltonstall, the two girls who have actually sailed a small boat before. I keep my nose out of it, listening only for any dangerous falsehoods, but there are none. The girls come down in groups of six to receive instruction. I have given Cathy and Hyacinth pencils and some pieces of paper and they have faithfully drawn diagrams as to the various “points of sail” and they carefully describe how the sails are set depending on how the wind is coming at the boat. Everybody knows this backing up of skills is in case anyone, me or Cathy or Hyacinth, is knocked out of action, so that others will be able to take over the navigating of the boat. It’s not often mentioned, but casualties can be expected when we make our break for freedom.