Rapture of the Deep: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Soldier, Sailor, Mermaid, Spy (12 page)

I look over at the man who has been saying these things. He is thin, stooped, wearing a floppy black hat and smoking a thin cheroot.

"So what am I bid? Shall we start at five hundred dollars? Do I hear five hundred?"

No, he does not.

"One hundred dollars!" calls out the man with the cigar. "Hell, if I get her for that I can put her to chopping cotton till she drops dead. Still be worth it." He doesn't get as big a laugh on that one. It seems that not everyone here is quite as cruel as he.

"Come, Colonel Tarleton, surely you can do better than that?"

"Surely, I cannot, Suh!" responds this Tarleton. "Hell, she could die tomorrow, and then where would I be? Out one hundred dollars, and with one fat dead Nigra on my hands, that's where."

"I have one hundred dollars, then," says the auctioneer, looking out over the crowd. "Do I hear two hundred?"

Silence. Then...

"One hundred and fifty dollars!" I sing out. I have reached down and felt the gold coins in my money belt, as well as the money in my purse, and I think I have that amount.

"What the hell are you doin'?" demands Davy. Tink, beside him, looks shocked.

I grab each of the lads by the forearm and hiss, "Davy ... Tink ... Pretend to smile and laugh like all of this is nothing to you. If they see I want her too bad, they'll bid me up! And I ain't got no more money. Now, do it!"

And they play along, pretending they have absolutely no interest in what is going on in this slave market. I put on the Lawson Peabody Look, and wait.

"I have one hundred and fifty dollars!" says the auctioneer through his megaphone. "Do I have two hundred? Colonel Tarleton?"

Colonel Tarleton looks over at me. "Why you want this old Negress?" He takes the cigar from his mouth, throws it on the ground, and grinds it out with the heel of his boot.

"I need someone to look after my baby girl, Suh, as I am sickly and can no longer do it fo' m'self." I put the back of my hand to my forehead and affect a bit of a swoon.

"Hah! You shall have her, then. Never let it be said that Colonel Ashley Tarleton kept a flower of southern womanhood from having a proper mammy fo' her baby!" He takes off his hat and bows low.

I simper and curtsy to his bow.

"One hundred and fifty," says the auctioneer, impatient to get past this very unprofitable transaction. "Once, twice, gone! To the lady in the black dress! Now next we have a fine..."

I go around to the back of the stage, where I find a man seated at a table collecting the money and writing out the Bills of Sale. I tell him my name and pay him his money and he gives me the paper.

Bill of Sale
For the Negro Woman known as Jemimah.
Formerly owned by Asa Hamilton. Sold in as-is
condition to J. M. Faber.

Attested Herewith
William Meade, Esq.

Just as simple as that—the ownership of a person is passed from one to the next. I fold the paper and put it in my purse.

"Thank you for your purchase," says this Mr. Meade with a smirk. He has to be the brother of the auctioneer. "We do hope you will be pleased." I am handed the end of a rope, the other end of which is attached to the neck of ... Who? ... Oh, yes ... Jemimah.

She picks up a bundle, which I suspect holds all her earthly goods, and she looks at me and then gazes off, her eyes revealing nothing.

"You are crazy," says Davy. "You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," I answer, my nose in the air, as we all head back to the
Nancy B.

Higgins, Dr. Sebastian, and I are going off to see a musical revue this evening at Tagliaferro Hall in Charleston and will join the others later at The Fox. Higgins is giving me a bit of a brush-up. I sense that he is not entirely pleased with me. It doesn't take him long to get down to it.

"So, now you own a slave, Miss?"

"Yes, I do, Higgins. We needed a cook, and now we've got one." We have been getting along with Tink as cook, but I know it hurts his sailor pride, me and his brother Davy being onboard and all. Plus he's not really very good at it. And Higgins, though he will cook for me, doesn't like cooking for a crowd. Hey, he's second in command of Faber Shipping, not Ship's Cook.

"I see," says Higgins. His touch is not quite so gentle as usual. "We needed a cook, so you just went out and bought one."

"Ouch! Come on, Higgins, you know I'm going to set her free."

"Oh? And when will that happen? When we are done with this voyage? How convenient."

"As soon as we throw off the lines, clear the harbor, and leave this town. If she wants to get off in our next port, she can."

"Well, that eases my mind somewhat. Still, I shall have to ponder the morality of all this. By that transaction you have, you must know, participated in the slave trade. Every dollar made by the traders furthers the evil."

"I don't have to ponder anything, my dear and ever-present conscience, because I know that had I not bought her, she would have been put into the fields to pick cotton till she died. That's what I know."

Higgins does not reply to that but goes on silently brushing. Eventually he asks, "What will you wear tonight?"

I think for a moment and then decide. "The French one. Direct from Paris. That oughta set the Charleston ladies back on their heels."

Earlier, when Jemimah had been brought onboard, I straightaway led her down into the hold and showed her the galley and where she was to sleep, which was the bunk closest to the stove, just as Crow Jane once had done back on the
Belle of the Golden West.
Joannie and Daniel hung about close by, eyes wide, curious.

"They said you are a cook, Jemimah. Are you?" I asked.

"Yes, Ma'am," she said, those being the first words she had spoken. I know that she was startled when we had come down the wharf and she had gotten a look at what was to be her new home. But she said nothing then, and she is of very few words now.

"Well, then, your duties shall be cooking for the crew and some light housekeeping. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Good. Take some time now to settle in. Check out our cooking utensils and see what we've got in the way of stores. Most of us are going off the ship tonight, so you will not have to make dinner. Just put something together for yourself and these two kids here and the man on watch. This is Daniel, and that's Joannie. They are your helpers. Make them mind and don't take any back talk."

She nodded and I continued.

"We are leaving on the outgoing tide at six in the morning. We'll expect breakfast for the crew at eight." Then I raised my finger in the air and said as sternly as I could, "The one thing we fear most on a ship is fire, so you must be very,
very
careful with the galley stove. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Ma'am. How many?"

"How many what?"

"How many for breakf'st?"

"Oh." Feeling foolish, I mentally counted up my crew. "Eleven. Including you."

She nodded again and I said briskly, "Very well, then. Joannie, Daniel, show Jemimah around the ship. Carry on."

I then left the galley and went back to my cabin, feeling not foolish now, but decidedly uncomfortable.

The musical revue at Tagliaferro Hall was great fun, the production having very professional singers, musicians, and dancers, and wildly funny skits.

And, curiously, in the middle of it all, the theatrical company performed a little playlet, which was very much like the thing I had written and that we had performed on the
Belle of the Golden West
when we were on the Mississippi.
Very
much like mine. Mine was called
The Villain Pursues Constant Maiden, or Fair Virtue in Peril,
while this production was titled simply
The Villain Pursues Her.
Hmmm.

Higgins, who was seated next to me, leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Could it be, Miss, that your rights to that little gem of deathless literature have been violated?" I gave him an elbow for his cheek, and then I thought about it and shrugged—no matter, for it is nice to know that one's literary efforts have been noticed and appreciated even if copied for someone else's profit. We joined the rest of the audience heartily booing and hissing the villain, and, yes, the heroine's tear-away dress did come off just like mine did all those times.

We topped off the evening at The Swamp Fox, eating and drinking our fill, and got back to the ship, the whole lot of us, arms about each other's necks, singing and carousing, at about midnight.

As I snugged down into my bed and prepared for sleep, my thoughts, after a prayer for Jaimy's health and safety, turned to Jemimah, who was lying down below.

What must she think of us? She has only seen us at our brawling worst. What must it be like for her, to come on this little ship, not knowing who we are and where we are going?

Ah, well, I'll clear that up for her tomorrow.

G'night, Jaimy. I behaved pretty good today, I think, I ... I...

Morning came early,
very
early, but the grumbly group of us managed to struggle up and get the
Nancy B.
unmoored and under way on the morning tide—Davy on helm, me on the con, and the rest tending the sails. We had done this many times before, taking her out after a night of excess, but this leave-taking was a little different. As we stood blearily on deck, silently promising ourselves never to do it again and knowing that we would break that promise, Daniel and Joannie brought up trays of steaming mugs of coffee.
Very
good mugs of coffee, thick and sweet, that did much to restore our usual high spirits. That, and the good smells wafting up from the galley.

After getting her well out of the harbor and into the open sea, and putting her on a course due south, we left the watch to Davy and McGee and went down to breakfast.

On the mess deck we have a long wooden table made of two-inch-thick maple bolted to the deck and big enough to seat fourteen, one at the head, one at the foot, and six down each side. While on most ships of this type, the sailors eat out of metal mess kits, I insist on proper china. And since Faber Shipping has hauled a lot of it around, we have some of the best. Never let it be said that we suffer anything but first class. When first I got the
Nancy B.
into port in Boston, I contracted with my dear friend Ephraim Fyffe, Master Carpenter and husband to the former Betsey Byrnes, to come aboard with his carpentry tools to exercise his skill. First I had him rout out circular depressions at each place setting into which would fit the feet of the plates, and then in the center of each of those, another deeper one to hold a bowl when we are having chowder or burgoo. Then, within easy reach of a sailor's hand, a hole to hold his glass or cup. Pretty crafty, I thought. This all was done, of course, to keep the settings from sliding off the table when the
Nancy B.
is rolling around in heavy seas, which she's doing a pretty good job of right now.

Jemimah is standing at the stove, at the end of the long room, putting her spatula to the bacon that sits sizzling on the griddle, and Daniel and Joannie are carrying plates of hotcakes and putting them at each place.

I take my seat at the head of the gleaming table—Ephraim had put six coats of good spar varnish on it when he was done with the routing, and it glows like a wooden jewel—and the others take their places, as well. I stick my coffee mug in its slot and lean back as Joannie puts my plate in front of me.

"Thank you, dear," I say, and dig into the beautifully browned pancakes adorned with melted butter and maple syrup with crispy bacon on the side.
Mmmmmm...

After I get a few more delightful mouthfuls down, I look over at Tink and say, "Mr. Tinker, I am afraid I must dismiss you as ship's cook."

"That's just fine with me, Jacky," says Tink, and there is laughter and mumbled murmurs of assent around the table as all heartily wolf down their food.

Finishing up, I wipe my mouth, stick my napkin back in its ring, and sip at a second cup of excellent coffee while I make plans with Dr. Sebastian for the day's drawings. Then there is some small talk concerning last night's activities, and those of us who were at Tagliaferro's recount some of the better japes and jokes for those who were not.

At last I say to Higgins, who has been sitting, mostly silent, on my right, "Please have Jemimah report to me as soon as breakfast is cleared away, so I can do what needs to be done."

I rise, and so does he, and I go back to my cabin.

My cabin on the
Nancy B.,
current flagship of Faber Shipping Worldwide, is tiny compared to other captain's cabins I have occupied, but it is quite cozy. There is a bank of narrow windows around the curved aft wall that opens to let in a breeze. There is, of course, a bedstead built into the starboard wall, and in addition, there is a small desk that I had Ephraim Fyffe make and install for me. It is beautifully done—and I still cannot believe such fine things are made with simple hand tools—and it converts, with a simple flip of its lid, to a small table should I want to entertain someone privately in my cabin.

It is at that desk that I sit, ink bottle open and quill in hand, when I hear a knock at the door.

"Come in," I say, and the door opens and Jemimah ducks her head under the narrow hatchway and enters to stand before me.

"Yes, Ma'am. You wanted to see me. Here I am."

I regard her for a moment and then say, "The breakfast was very good, Jemimah."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

"I am happy that you did not get seasick. Many do, you know."

"I didn't get sick on the way over here, and don't 'spect to get sick now."

Hmmm...

"Have Joannie and Daniel been good?"

"Yes'm. They washin' up the dishes right now."

"You seem to be good with children."

"I raised Mastah Hamilton's four children and then his ten gran'children. Six of my own, too. I knows how to handle 'em. If'n a sharp word don't do, then a switch will."