Under the Jolly Roger: Being an Account of the Further Nautical Adventures of Jacky Faber (25 page)

"I fer one ain't gonna be followin' no orders from no jumped-up splittail what thinks she's a bleedin' officer!"

Uh-oh...

That came from a group of men gathered about the foot of the mainmast. There are growls of agreement. Curses, too. I look over and see that it has come from none other than Cornelius Muck, himself. His crew of ne'er-do-wells, slackers, and Waisters is around him, nodding and mouthing their agreement.

I jump to my feet. "Hear me on this, all of you! When I was child, I was an orphan on the streets of London. I was a member of the Rooster Charlie Gang and we lived in our kip under Blackfriars Bridge. Is anyone here from Cheap-side?"

The crew is taken aback by the sudden turn this has taken, but I have known, from their Cockney accents and the slang they use, that there were many from my old neighborhood aboard, and several from the crowd do say,
Yes, I'm from Cheapside,
and one in the rigging says,
Aye, I remember that gang,
and suchlike. They are mystified, but Muck is not. A look of sudden fear crosses his face, and I can see him trying to make his way back into the crowd.

"Then you must know of Muck, the Corpse Seller!" I sing out. "He who gathered us up when we were dead and sold our bodies to the anatomists who cut us up and treated us most foul! Do you remember?"

More calls of
Aye
and
I remembers the bastard!
Muck tries to get back and away, but he can't—the crowd is too close.

"Well, there stands, 'neath that beard and cap, and under the false name of Asa Horner, none other than Cornelius Muck, the Cheapside Ghoul, the Purveyor of Corpses!" I make my arm ramrod straight as I point my finger to Muck's stricken face. He shakes his head
no ... no ...
but it ain't gonna do him any good.

Hands are put on him and men peer into his face.
Good God, it's 'im! It's goddamn Muck, himself!
says a voice and
e
got me little brother! And 'im not dead but a few minutes!
says another and
a body snatcher! Here, on our ship!
and then, the thing that dooms him ...
He's the Jonah! The cause of all our bad luck!

The babble of voices grows louder and louder. I rise and go to the rail and look out over the water to France. Behind me, I hear the sound of a struggle, but I do not turn to look. If someone wants to take this moment to put a blade between my shoulders and settle this that way, then so be it. My last sight on this earth will be the beautiful ocean slipping by my keel on a beautiful, soaring day.

There are sounds of desperate pleading behind me, cries of
no ... please, no!
then a long, long gurgling sound, then silence. Sounds of something being dragged. Then a splash. Then, again ... silence.

So, Rooster Charlie, so...

I turn back to face the crew. Jared and Harkness are standing at their chairs. Jared is smiling at me. "What's it to be, Lieutenant?" he says.

Taking my seat again, I reflect that sometimes it takes blood to properly seal a bargain. "Please sit, gentlemen. Drake, please unlock Mr. Raeburne's bonds." All sit and Robin's hands are freed. He rubs his wrists and looks at me with real heat in his eyes.

"You, Mr. Raeburne, are to be First Mate. You, Mr. Jared, are to be Master's Mate. You, Mr. Harkness, are to be Gunner's Mate, and you, Mr. Drake, are to be Sub-Lieutenant-at-Arms. Mr. Wheeler, read that into the log." I see their chests swell at being elevated to warrant officer rank. "A glass of wine to seal the bargain." I lift my glass and they do, too, and we all drink them down.

"I will dine with my officers tonight in my cabin. That is, if we are not otherwise engaged. As for now, we are going to take that ship!"

As one my men look out toward the smuggler. A roar of pure greed comes from their throats.

I rise and call out, "Beat to Quarters! Clear for action!"

Feet pound on the deck and the men go running to their stations, joyous as any pack of wolves in sight of helpless prey. I go up on the quarterdeck to relieve Ned who dashes to his station as Fire Control Officer with Tom. I see Georgie and Tucker tumble out of the foretop and head for the port guns, and I confer with Jared and Harkness as to our plan.

"Mr. Jared. I want to continue south for a bit till our quarry goes over the horizon. Then turn east and parallel their course for about a half hour till we are out of sight of land as well. Do you understand why?"

Jared's cocky look is back on his face. It gives me some satisfaction to recall that, during the session at the table, that look was gone for a bit. "You do not want to alarm those on the shore so that they will stop sending ships out?"

"Even so, Mr. Jared. You have the con. Mr. Harkness, you will ensure that all the guns are ready. And I want you to personally make ready the Long Tom up in the fo'c'sle. It's possible it may see some action this day, and, if it does, I want you to do the firing."

Jack Harkness grins and goes to knuckle his brow and then remembers his new station and bows instead and says, "It shall be done, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, Mr. Harkness."

I guess that is what they have decided to call me.
Lieutenant.
Lieutenant Faber. I think about it and decide that I like it.

Robin comes up to me now. "I am so glad, Jacky, I..."

"So am I, Robin, but now you must go down and clean up. I have put Seaman John Harper in charge of your old division. As First Mate, your place during Quarters will be by my side on the quarterdeck. Go down. We will have the Captain's funeral soon, and you must be presentable." He hesitates, then nods and goes to leave.

"And Mr. Raeburne..." He turns and looks at me. I lay two fingers over the lace in my lapel. "...when we are in public..."

He flushes and says, "Yes, Lieutenant." He turns on his heel and is gone.

Sorry, Robin, but if you think things are going to be as they were, you are wrong.

I send the Messenger of the Watch for Higgins and when he arrives I say, "Have Earweg prepare the Captain's body for burial. Then, if you would be so good, see what you can do to fix up the cabin for me. I know it's distasteful ... the bed and all..."

Higgins bows and says, "On the contrary, Miss. This is the happiest day of my life. I shall do what I can."

I take a deep breath and go to my usual spot on the quarterdeck, right in the middle with one leg on either side of the centerline so I can get the feel of the ship. I look up at the sails and find that they are perfectly set, and when I look back down, I am astounded to find little Eli Chase, the smallest of the ship's boys, standing in front of me with a drum strapped on his waist, his hands holding the drumsticks poised above it, his eyes fixed on my face should I give an order that requires his drumming.
Oh, my...

During the chase Captain Scroggs went over the side. Earweg had sewed him up in a canvas bag and his mortal remains were laid upon a plank that was set on the starboard rail. I took the Bible and said the necessary words and the board was lifted and the body slid off.

On my command, the men of the starboard guns pulled their shameful skirts from their belts and threw them into the water, to sink down with the Captain's corpse.

There was not a sorry heart nor a damp eye on the ship.

We come down on the unsuspecting smuggler like the pack of hungry dogs we are.

He is running up there ahead of us, and I take the glass and run up to the foretop and train it on him. Sure enough, the other Captain has his glass trained on us and, from what I can see, is looking mighty worried.
Why is this English ship bearing down on me?
he's probably thinking.
Have not the bribes been paid?

Oh yes, Frenchy, you have paid, but not quite enough. Not yet, anyway.

A suspicion has been growing in my mind that Captain Scroggs had been taking bribes for letting the smugglers through the blockade, a suspicion fueled by gazing at all that gold he had in his drawer. As I figure, he was probably paid off through a middleman in London—the smugglers pay the middleman, who takes his cut, and then gives the rest to the Captain and all are happy.
Were
happy, that is.

I still haven't figured out the flashing lights on the shore, though, and we did see them again last night.

"Mr. Harkness!" I shout down. "Give him one across his bow."

Crracckk!

The bow chaser barks out its nine-pound ball. It hits a few yards off to the left of the ship.
Good shooting. We don't want to hurt the prize,
which looks to be a nice little two-masted schooner, maybe ninety feet long. Good and beamy and sure to hold a fat cargo. Little Mary, Cheapside Mary, that greedy little thief who still lives within me and is never very far from the surface, is in full control of me now, and my heart beats in a state of high excitement as we bear down.
Better than rollin drunks, eh, Mary?
I think.

"Another on his other side, Mr. Harkness!"

Crraacckk!

The Long Tom blows out another blast of fire and smoke.
That was quick reloading, Jack Harkness. Good job.

The ball hits about ten yards to the right of the schooner, but she shows no sign of heaving to. Probably doesn't know anything about that, striking the colors and all, being a noncombatant.
Give up nicely now, Frenchy. This is strictly business, nothing personal. Don't want anyone to get hurt.

I swing back down to the quarterdeck. Drake had already been told to issue cutlasses and they gleam in the hands of my sailors.

"We'll come along his port side and take him there," I say to Jared. "Mr. Raeburne, muster the Boarding Party, but keep the starboard gun crews at their stations in case..."

Booommmm...

There's a blast from the other ship, a high whistle and a neat round hole appears in the mainsail right above our heads.
He's firing on us, the sod! The cheek of the man!

"Close now!" I shout to Jared. "Man the Boarding Party on the starboard side!" The drummer boy starts his drum roll and I pull my sword.

We're comin' up fast on the prize, only about fifty feet away ... now twenty ... ten ... we are on her!

"Starboard gun crews, hold your positions!" yells Robin, lifting his own cutlass. "Grappling hooks, away!" He gets up on the rail.

The hooks are thrown and the ships are pulled together.

I lift my voice in the chant, "Were-wolves! Were-wolves! Were-wolves!"

And the chant is taken up by the entire crew, until the very sky seems to shake with it.

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

With Robin in the lead, the Werewolves surge over the rail, waving their cutlasses and yelling like very devils from Hell. Jared and I swing aboard and we find the crew of the smuggler cowering against the starboard rail. Their Captain stands up before them and unbuckles his sword.

"
Capitaine?
" he asks of Robin. The French Captain is plainly enraged by the turn of events, but I guess he intends to do things in the right way with the giving up of his sword and all. Robin shakes his head and directs the Werewolves to disarm the smuggler crew and herd them back onto the
Wolverine,
where they will be confined below.

"
Capitaine?
" he says again, holding his sword out to Jared.

Jared grins his mocking grin and bows low, sweeping his arm toward me, standing there with
Persephone
in my hand. "No, Sir.
This
is the
Cappy-tan.
May I present our own Captain Puss-in-Boots?"

The Frenchman's mouth drops open. "
Une femme! Une jeune fille!
" he says and pulls his sword and I drop down in the ready position, but he pulls the sword to use on himself, not me. Jared comes up next to him and knocks the sword out of his hand.

"You'll get over it, Froggie, count on it," says Jared. "After all, we did."

The French crew of what turns out to be the
Emilie
is taken over to the
Wolverine,
to be put into the brig until we can prepare the fo'c'sle for them. I go to the hatch that leads down into the hold. There is a lock on it. Jared comes up next to me and upon seeing it, takes an ax from its place in a bracket on the mainmast, swings back, and smashes the lock off. We go in.

In the gloom, I see stacks and stacks of cases. As my eyes become used to the gloom, I see what is stamped into the sides of the cases:

H. M. FLETCHER & SONS
IMPORTERS OF FINE WINES
BRATTLE STREET, LONDON

Oh, my ... Jaimy Fletcher's dad...

Laughter bubbles up in my chest, but I make myself stop thinkin' about that 'cause I got a real problem here. I stick my head back out the hatch and bellow, "Mr. Drake, to me NOW!" I look again at the cargo.
Christ! Just what I need—a hundred drunken Werewolves!

Peter Drake comes bounding across the deck and I climb back out of the hatch and stand in plain sight of the crew so that all can hear.

"Mr. Drake. You will secure this cargo. Shoot any man that tries to force his way into it. Do you understand?"

He says he does and motions to some of his trusted men to get chains and locks. Then he gives orders to collect the cutlasses, as they are no longer needed.
Good man.

I step up on a hatch cover and say to my crew, "Werewolves!"

There is a roar in answer.

"You shall each share in this fine wine with your dinner tonight. We shall plunder the stores of this ship and you shall have the finest of feasts!" I pause. "But if you want to ever see any serious prize money, if you ever want to ever have money to spend when you go ashore, you have
got
to leave the cargo alone. We will take it back and we will sell it and you will all get your proper share. Do you understand?"

There is another roar.

"Good. Now let's get back on station before they know that we have been gone."

I put my foot back on the
Wolverine
and give the orders.