Fire on Dark Water (6 page)
Read Fire on Dark Water Online
Authors: Wendy Perriman
“Why?” I asked, confused.
The captain interjected, “Those Froggie devils are trying to expand their territories and we need to put a stop to them.”
“Oh,” I replied. I thought on the information and deducted, “So the French ship would have attacked us because we’re English?”
“Or they could happen be privateers. . . .” he added. “Corsairs—with letters of marque.”
Again I lacked comprehension, until Bristol explained that privateers are private warships licensed by their monarch to raid enemy vessels in times of war. But my face must have still displayed suitable ignorance for the young boy groped for simpler words I could grasp. He tried, “Like . . . legal pirates.” Suddenly I understood. Of course I knew all about pirates—monsters that plague the high seas—villains and cutthroats and demons (except for Dya’s lover, the Dandy Dick Brennar). My bottom lip began wavering in aftershock as I pondered our narrow escape.
The captain apparently noted my distress and lightened the mood with, “But enough of this! Display for us your outfit, my bonny. . . .” So I stood a little from the table and sank a sweeping curtsey. “Turn around,” he commanded. I happily obeyed. He nodded his approval. Then he walked to the door and barked the following orders, “Mr. Owens—signal the eight bells if you please. And Mr. Kimble—an extra ration of rum for the men and a flagon of brandy for the officers. . . .” He glanced across at Bristol and confided, “Lola is going to entertain us.”
Apart from the watch, all the sailors were grouped on deck either hanging over the quarterdeck barricado or propped against the bulwarks, drinking, smoking, engaging in crude conversation. The fiddler stood highlighted up on the forecastle deck and an empty space on the waist—directly between the foremast and mainmast—was to be my stage. The prisoners were locked below, but as soon as the music began I saw Maude and Dollie press their faces against the grid to add their own accompaniment. It was reassuring to feel their support inside that threatening ring of men for I was concerned some tar might molest me. I ain’t kidding when I tell you I was scared looking round those lecherous faces, all battered and scabbed and blistered. Some licked pocked lips or scratched their privates yelling offensive suggestions, and soon as I stood center of the deck the circle closed in sniffing for thrills. But then I spotted the frown on the captain’s face. He stood at the top of the staircase and I instantly recognized safety—Caesar had apparently claimed me his own. He took up his speaking trumpet and shouted, “Stand off and yap not!” The men reluctantly edged back to the sides of the ship, curtailing their snarled lips and itching for me to commence.
I began with a simple dance consisting of tiny stamps and finger clicks. Maude added depth by singing “Yah, yah, la, la, hup, hup, hup,” and before long the audience joined in, banging and clapping in time to the beat. This was a calm, measured opening that allowed my muscles time to stretch and warm. The fiddler then picked up the pace and I exploded into a joyful piece with light sidesteps and little kicks forward. My long chestnut hair bounced in time with the waves and followed my back in a splash of curl. I flashed like the sun, the ribbons bouncing in rainbows of color. Another piece of music struck up. Then another. And I alternated my scarf to form a whisking shawl, airy wings, and a sultry, exotic veil. I went through my entire repertoire, bouncing on toes, crossing ankles, twirling and spinning, faster and slower. I sashayed my hips, and swished my skirt, wiggled and pouted and swayed. At some point an ardent jack-tar sprang forth to partner me in a lively duet. He slapped well-defined legs, flipped lithe heels to wrists, clapping and stomping alongside my movements. His mates egged encouragement but the fiddle suddenly sputtered from discord to silence. . . . The captain had decided that this show was now over.
As I walked back to stern to change my clothes I realized Bristol must still be hiding from the doctor who had propped himself high up on the steps. Captain Mack was already in his cabin by the time I got back and he seemed excited by my performance. I wasn’t any concerned when he locked the door behind me because I thought he was gallantly ensuring my privacy. But when he pointed to a linen shirt with a finely laced collar and told me to make it a nightgown I realized I wouldn’t be spending no more nights in that stifling hold. And I was glad.
Now, I can tell you there’s much advantage in being the captain’s favorite. I ain’t never had a father—but I imagine that’s how one would treat me—gentle and attentive and generous as he trained me to his pleasure. Of course, now I know he was just another dirty buggar who got his jollies preparing young girls, but back then I thought he really liked me. He said that I was special. Two weeks in his bunk taught me to touch and kiss and lick and tease, and four weeks left me no illusion I was truly damned forever—complicit in my own seduction. I danced all manner of command performances and was groomed to satisfy the basest requests. But it kept me safe from the rest of the crew. I got fed well, wore nicer things, and was free until afternoon watch. I was now made to address my lover as Master—and instructed to stay away from the other prisoners (in case I caught something nasty). All I had to do was be his very good girl.
And you ain’t never wanting to be crossing Captain James Mack! One time, some old salt pulled a knife on the first mate and the surgeon was ordered to chop off his hand. We all had to watch. If two sailors got fighting it was three duckings each from the yardarm for both offenders, and those caught thieving had their heads shaved, then were tarred with oil and feathers. Anyone falling asleep on watch was flogged, and if someone got drunk and incapable they were tied to the foremast for days. And that’s how he dealt with his crew. Now the prisoners were even more brutally used—they were shown absolutely no mercy. Any infraction at all brought a lick from the cat-o’-nine-tails (which leaves a rumpled scar like the knots of a gnarly tree). And as water grew scarcer, that became an added incentive, because I can’t never describe how it feels to be really really thirsty but you get to the point where you’d kill for a few drops of fresh. See, at first the liquid goes sweet in the casks. Then thick. Then slimy. And after several weeks it turns stagnant and full of green things. And you can’t drink the sea for it makes you sick, so even I ended up supping ale, gradually progressing to wine, rum, and brandy. I have to admit I grew rather partial to brandy—it numbed the pain, dulled the worry, and helped the evening smut roll by much faster.
During the mornings I spent time with Bristol at his chores and picked up some of the trade as he worked his maiden voyage. First, he taught me my way round the ship. He explained that our vessel was commissioned along the lines of a Spanish galleon, and that this was unusual for a British merchantman. We stood together at the top of the quarterdeck steps and he explained, “See the three masts?” I nodded. “The one at the front is the foremast and that holds the foresail. The middle is the mainmast with the mainsail, and behind us is the mizzenmast and mizzen-sail.” The front of the ship—fore—is the bow, and the back is the stern or aft. Understand?” My grin indicated that I did. “To the left is port and to the right is starboard,” he added.
“And there are four decks,” I observed helpfully.
“Yes. To the rear, above the captain’s cabin, is the after. We’re on the quarterdeck. Below is the waist, and at the front above the galley is the foc’s’le or forecastle.” I quickly absorbed all the information and smiled my understanding. “Now repeat!” he demanded, and I related what I’d just learned. Later my new friend showed me some rope skills. I observed him make a stopper knot to keep lines from threading through holes, and learned alongside—from the second mate—how to tie bowlines, lightermans, clove hitches, and the fisherman’s knot. Any spare moments we’d raced each other in friendly competition until we both became quite proficient. I wasn’t allowed to do no dangerous or heavy tasks, though it did amuse the crew when I volunteered to help swab the quarterdeck, and I actually enjoyed learning to mend sails. But I was more than glad not to join Bristol cleaning the prison holds because it made him physically sick, even though I understood why they needed to be done twice a week. While I didn’t mind filling up the buckets of sand used to scrub the muck off I wouldn’t no way have wanted to empty the mess-tubs or scrape away the crud. Everyone got out of the hold by the time the fire pans were lit for drying, and when the chambers were smoked clean with tar, tobacco, and brimstone even the hardiest sea dog steered clear of the acrid smog.
Bristol circulated around the officers as an assistant steward to learn their various tasks and I often scuttled alongside him. First the sailing master showed how to set the sails (but I got lost in his complex explanation of tacking to beat upwind). Then we spent several hateful days shadowing quartermaster Kimble—who was vicious and harsh and relished the power he spent like a wealthy toff. I didn’t learn nothing from him for he made my head wobble with that much dread I couldn’t keep nothing inside it. The boatswain taught Bristol to fix ropes and pulleys, while his mate showed me how to club hair in a nautical braid. And the carpenter chirped cheerfully away as he went through his routine checks of the mast and hull. But best of all I enjoyed navigation—complex, artistic, skillful, technical—and always thoroughly engaging. I learned about the rise and set of the sun, the tracks of the moon through the heavens, and stars took on names with increasing importance as I opened my ears and eyes.
Then as the weeks rolled past the first month into the second . . . some of the crew began falling sick. One day the gunner woke up with Cupid’s disease and tried to blame it on Maude. She was singled out during the doctor’s inspection and roughly hauled before Captain Mack. He turned to the gunner and asked, “Is this the one?”
The sailor spat in her hair and hissed, “Aye, Cap’n. That’s the filthy doxy as gave me the Great Pox.”
Maude looked horrified and yelled, “He didn’t get that from me!” The trembling young woman was instructed to undress in front of the entire crew so the doctor could further examine for pustules, rash, or fever. Unfortunately, Maude had scraped the inside of her thighs a few days earlier when she slipped on the greasy ladder, and in the dingy hold the wound had formed tiny pimples. Despite her protests and explanations, Dr. Simpson determined she was highly infectious and had to be rendered impotent for the rest of the voyage.
The captain nodded, turned to the quartermaster, and said, “Mr. Kimble—approach if you please.” The two men determined Maude’s fate in wily whispers, then the captain ordered the young woman to kneel at their feet. The quartermaster signaled for the marlinespike a sailor was using at the base of the mizzenmast and, with one ruthless swipe, he ripped open Maude’s pretty complexion from right ear to far left cheek. Her sparkling eyes dimmed in disbelief, then the pain struck home and she clutched her gaping face that had split like an overripe plum.
“You’re a wee bit less handsome now, lassie,” he sneered as he handed back the weapon. The captain looked on with sickening approval and said, “Sew her up, Doctor. She’ll not be infecting any more of my men.”
I hadn’t never seen nothing so cruel, and I cried the grief her damaged face could not. My poor friend had been torn and brutalized and would never find tolerable work again. They’d maimed her a figure of nightmare—for even after the thick stitches healed she was left lopsided and scarred. And I never once heard her sing from that day forth. All her spirit and humor deserted her and she sat in the shadows, marooned on her own black island. That same evening I got bloodied too. The captain expected me jovial and dancing but found me a sniveling nuisance. I made the mistake of questioning his judgment, and got rewarded with a violent blow to the chest that forced me across the cabin, cracked my rib, and made me feel queasy for days. He was careful, of course, not to damage another face—and to punish me further he put Violet in charge of the entertainment, supposedly until I healed.
I realized that night I never had no real influence over my master at all, and thereafter resolved to keep my thoughts close in my own clotted head. He was in charge of our everything—and that was just that.
3
A FLIMSY SHIFT ON A BUNKER COT
SUMMER, 1712
N
ow toward the end of our second month at sea the food rations grew fitful. The cow stopped making milk so was butchered and eaten, and all of the chickens had since found their way to the pot. The salted pork was blistered with maggots and the biscuits grew lacy where weevils invaded. Bristol and me tried our hands at fishing but neither of us had any luck. So while the prisoners made do with pottage and dried peas, the crew ate the last of the beef and set up nets to catch turtles or dolphins or whales. But at least there was plenty of booze left.
ow toward the end of our second month at sea the food rations grew fitful. The cow stopped making milk so was butchered and eaten, and all of the chickens had since found their way to the pot. The salted pork was blistered with maggots and the biscuits grew lacy where weevils invaded. Bristol and me tried our hands at fishing but neither of us had any luck. So while the prisoners made do with pottage and dried peas, the crew ate the last of the beef and set up nets to catch turtles or dolphins or whales. But at least there was plenty of booze left.
One afternoon we’d a temporary panic when another ship was spotted, but it turned out to be a friendly vessel on route to England so our captains made eager trade. Their boat had recently repelled an attack from pirates off Bermuda and was running short of powder and shot, which we readily swapped for their salt, goat meat, cheese, oranges, rice, and flour. They also gave over five barrels of water in return for some sailcloth and candles. While all the commotion drew attention I slipped beside the women’s hatch and whispered down to Dollie to find out how Maude was doing. Not well. Violet crept over to join our talk and began probing me with strange questions. She breathed, “Where does the captain keep the keys to the shot locker and powder room?”
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