Rapture of the Deep: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Soldier, Sailor, Mermaid, Spy (18 page)

The ship is called the
San Cristobal,
I see from the name painted in gilt on the stern, and a boat is being loaded, and ten men and an officer are in it.

I nip back under again, go to the bottom, and hack off a few more sponges. As I head back up, I see the hull bottom of the small boat making its way overhead to the raft of the
Nancy B.
I wait a bit, till I'm reasonably sure the occupants are out of the boat, then I resurface and place my arms on the raft and lie still to listen.

"Who are you and what are you doing here in Spanish waters?" the officer demands of John Higgins, who stands onboard as Captain. I observe that the young man is quite handsome—dark hair, noble nose—and is resplendent in a blue, yellow, and gold uniform. From the amount of gold braid on him, he looks to be a Senior Lieutenant.

"We are the
Nancy B. Alsop,
out of Boston, Massachusetts, United States, engaged in the harvesting of sponges. We also have a naturalist aboard who is studying the local flora and fauna—may I present Dr. Stephen Sebastian, here?"

The young officer does not seem particularly interested in who we are and what we are doing. He ignores the Doctor and directs his men to search our ship, and so they plunge down into our inner spaces.

"I will point out to you, Señor," says Higgins, "that we are five miles from shore and are, therefore, in international waters."

The officer slowly turns himself to bring his gaze upon Higgins.

"We will decide whose waters you are in, Señor, and not you."

An uneasy silence falls over the ship. Presently Higgins, who believes there is never an excuse for bad manners, says, "May we offer you something to eat or drink, Señor, while your men conduct their search?"

"If you have any decent rum aboard, you may give me a cup."

Higgins nods to Daniel, who goes below to get it. He comes back carefully balancing a tumbler of the amber liquor.

The Spaniard takes it and knocks back half of it. A disagreeable look comes over his face. "Swill," he says with a sneer, then flings the rest of the rum in Daniel's face. Shocked, the boy cries out and wipes at his eyes.

"You would serve that to a Castellano?" the Lieutenant asks, as he flings the cup over his shoulder. It hits the deck and shatters.

"And you will spurn our hospitality and cause distress to a small boy?" asks Higgins, unable to let the insult pass. I know that Higgins stocks only the finest of whiskeys and rums, and it is not good to question his taste.

The officer puts his hand on the hilt of his sword, his dark eyes hard. "Be careful of your tongue,
Yanqui,
else you might lose it."

Higgins is about to reply, when the Spanish sailors return to the deck, the lead man saying,
"Nada, Teniente."
They found nothing, just as we had thought.

"Very well.
Vamos, hombres!"
The Lieutenant spins on his heel and leads his men back toward their boat. I figure this would be a good time for me to go back down for more sponges and so stay out of the Castilian gentleman's notice.

It doesn't work out that way.

When I come back up, figuring the Spaniards would already be back in their boat, I fling my catch onto the raft like any good sponge diver—which would be fine if the Lieutenant had left the platform, which he had not. He was still very much there, and I see with a certain amount of horror that I have sprayed water from the dripping sponges all over his shiny black boots.

Uh-oh...

"Madre de Dios!"
he yells. "Look what you've done, you miserable
perro!"

"I am sorry, Sir," I say, thinking about swimming away to escape his wrath.

I don't get the chance.

"Bring him up here!" he roars to his men, and strong hands grab me under the arms to haul me up on the raft and then fling me all sprawled out down upon it.

He gives me a kick and says, "You piece of—" His eyes widen as he takes in my costume ... and me. "What? A
girl?
Get up, you!"

I get to my feet, my rump smarting from his boot.

His gaze sweeps over me and a smile comes to his thin lips.
"Bueno.
A welcome little diversion, eh,
chica?
Turn around." He pushes my right shoulder and I reluctantly turn around, slipping my forefingers under the bottom of my suit to tug it down to cover my bum.

"Very nice," he says. I endure his gaze, knowing that the
San Cristobal
could send us straight to the bottom with no questions asked if we dare to cross the Spaniards. I have heard sounds of my crewmen up on deck being restrained by both Higgins and Dr. Sebastian from pulling their knives and jumping down to my aid, which is good.
Steady boys, steady...

The officer, who has not removed his hand, then calls up to Higgins, "Why do you have girls diving for your sponges, man?"

Higgins, staying in character, replies, "Good seamen are hard to replace. Girls we can get anywhere. Plus they can stay down longer than men because they do not smoke tobacco."

"So you consider them expendable? Very good. And we know there are other uses for them as well, do we not? Dry this one off and she would warm a bed quite nicely."

Higgins does not reply, and the Spanish Lieutenant says, "Ah well, this has been most amusing, but now I must be off." I heave a sigh of relief. A little too soon, it turns out.

"There is still the matter of my boots," he goes on. "You sullied them. You shall kneel and clean them," and he shoves me down to my knees. I look at the tops of his boots and the sprinkles of seawater that glisten there. It is all I can do not to push this insufferable so-called gentleman over the side of the raft and then dive down to watch his face as he drowns. But I stifle my rage—there is too much at stake for me to give in to it.

When I am diving, Higgins always makes sure a folded towel is placed on the raft for me to dry off with when I am done, so now I reach for it and wipe the offending droplets from the blackguard's boots.

Apparently I have done it to his satisfaction, for, after snarling, "I should have had you lick it off, girl," he reaches down and grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me to my feet, his face in mine. "Next time I will."

Done with me, I am flung aside as he addresses Higgins. "We have heard rumors ... and there is much irregular here." He looks at me. "I have my suspicions. We will be watching you and we shall see."

He climbs into his boat, and says,
"Vamos!"
and the Spaniards pull away. The Lieutenant's last glance is at me, and though the day is warm, I give a bit of a shiver, then I dive back into the warm, cleansing waters of the Caribbean Sea.

Later that day, we put the seaman's bones into a canvas sack and sew it up. We let him keep his crucifix about his neck, but we do take his earring. The Star is rigged for a short sail and we put the bag in the lifeboat and prepare to cast off. As we are climbing in, I inform Dr. Sebastian of our intention to cross over to the Key to bury the remains.

"But why?" asks the Doctor. "They are just bones."

"It's an age-old tradition, Dr. Sebastian, a bargain, really, between those who sail the sea and those who live on land—between the living and the dead," I explain to the landsman. "You see that all of us seamen wear a single gold hoop in our ears? Well, if a sailor meets his end at sea and later washes up on shore, the person who finds him must give his body a proper burial, and is then allowed to take the gold ring for his payment. We took his gold ring, so now we've got to bury him. Simple as that." I reach up to touch my own earring.

"I see," says the practical surgeon, who has undoubtedly cut up more bodies and thrown away more bones than he could possibly count. "More nautical foolishness."

"Just so, Doctor. Sailors are very superstitious as a rule, and one of the things they don't like is being buried at sea." I motion for Davy to hoist the
Star
's sail, and Tink takes his place on the tiller as I call up to my First Mate, "Mr. Tanner, make all preparations for getting under way. When we come back aboard, we'll pull the hook and head over to Cuba to take on fresh water and sell our sponges. The
Dolphin
is not due to rendezvous for five more days, and we can't do anything till we get that diving bell. All right, shove off."

"He could have been a real rotter, you know, this man we are burying," says Tink. He turns the last shovelful of Key West dirt over the grave of the Spanish sailor and tamps it down.

Since we did not know his name, we made up a crude wooden cross with just the words
Vaya con Dios, Marinero,
"Go with God, Mariner," written in ship's ink thereon, and we stuck it in the sand above his head. We are at the western tip of Key West, having had no intention of getting anywhere near that alligator pit.

"Right," says Davy. "Or a real son of a bitch of a Bosun's Mate."

"Myself," I say, "I want to believe that he was a nice young man who loved the girl he left behind with a heartfelt promise of a quick return, and she, in turn, mourned his loss when he did not come back, not ever." It's the romantic in my nature.

"Of course," says Davy, with a heavy sigh.

By common consent, we have given the Spanish sailor's earring to Davy, who had none, since he had placed his on the finger of Annie Byrnes when he married her. He now has another hanging on his ear, one that is certainly salty, having lain below all these years.

"Whoever and whatever he was, he showed us the way to the
Santa Magdalena,
and for that I am grateful," I go on. "And I think he is glad to be buried at last on Spanish soil, and he will, perhaps, bless our expedition for our doing it."

"It's gonna be dark soon, Jacky, we'd best be getting back," warns Tink.

I look up into the reddening sky and realize that Tink is right. We'll want to get the
Nancy B.
headed south before true night sets in.

"We did what we came to do. Let's get back," I order, and we return to the boat. "Rest in peace, sailor," I say as we push off.

We reach the
Nancy B.,
lift the anchor, raise the sails, get her on course, set the watch, and as she surges toward Cuba, we go down for dinner. We have an excellent soup featuring, I believe, the parts of a certain unfortunate red rooster, as well as biscuits, potatoes, ham, and redeye gravy.

After I have eaten my fill, I lean back in my chair, place the back of my fist against my mouth to stifle a discreet burp, and lift my glass to my crew, to announce, "It will take us eighteen to twenty hours to get to Cuba, if the current wind holds, and the same sailing time to get us back to our rendezvous with the
Dolphin
on Friday. That means three days of sweet liberty in one of the finest ports in the Caribbean. Do I hear a cheer?"

"Hear, hear!"
shouts my parcel of rogues.

On to Havana and all her charms.

"So, Jemimah. We are nearing Havana. Will you leave us there, or will you stay? Now that you're free and all."

We have seen the land looming before us and are working our way up the coast, to the city. Breakfast has been served and cleared away, and I am gazing down at the new chicks, which the broody hen just hatched.

"Don't know," she says, tossing out the grain to the clucking chickens. "What's there for me?"

"Oh, about seventy thousand people. Lots of big buildings and forts. Biggest town north of Peru, and that includes Boston, New York, and Charleston. New Orleans, too." I got this information from Dr. Sebastian, who, aside from being an avid naturalist, is also an agent of British Intelligence. "I'll give you what you've earned so far if you want to go. You shouldn't have any trouble finding work, 'cause you're one fine cook."

"Hmmm ... Suppose someone come up and try to put me back as a slave. Wouldn't be no trouble for them to do it—I'm black, they white."

"Dr. Sebastian tells me there's over fifteen thousand free blacks on the island. You wouldn't stand out."

"Ummm..."

"Don't want you to go, Jemimah, but it's up to you."

"Well, we'll see."

I let it go at that and reach down to scoop up one ofthe peeps. While the rest of the chicks are a fuzz of bright yellow, this one is white with streaks of black.

"Hmmm ... Ain't too tough to figure out who this one's dad is," I say, looking over at the banty, who seems to be glad to be the only rooster still standing. The chick fixes me with his bright little eye and then pecks my thumb. "Nope, not hard at all."

I put the feisty little thing back with his nest mates and go out the hatchway. I hop up on my quarterdeck to watch our approach to Havana.

I have dressed in my serving-girl rig—loose white blouse, tight black vest, black skirt, black stockings, black shoes—figuring it more appropriate for a visit to a Catholic port than my usual attire. After all, the Spanish Inquisition still does exist and I'd hate to end up on the rack. Or at the stake, for that matter, ready to be roasted for my many misdeeds. I suspect that my tombstone shall someday read
She sure had it comiri.

I'm also wearing my curly black wig, and with my deep tan, I become Jacky Bouvier, Creole girl and Sponge Diver.
Huh!
Jemimah had said upon first seeing me in this costume,
Least you fin
l
y got some clothes on you, gal. But what you doin' tryin' to pass?
and I fluffed up and retorted that I had indeed passed for a high yellow before, like that time in New Orleans with Mam'selle Claudelle, so there.
Wouldna
fooled none of my kinfolk, not with that skinny little nose. Huh! Mebbe they thought you was Ethiopian or sumthin'

Both Higgins and Dr. Sebastian are on the quarterdeck when I arrive and Jim is on the helm. Davy and the other lads handle the sails, and Joannie has been allowed topside to sit in Jemimah's chair. I think the child's wounds were more to her mind than to her body. Higgins, I know, has the fake papers for the
Nancy B.
tucked in his jacket that designate him as Captain of my schooner. It wouldn't serve for me to be seen as such in these parts, as I did prey on Spanish shipping during that summer on my
Emerald
with my wild Irish crew. So I'd best lie low. Just a simple sponge diver and servant to Dr. Sebastian, that's all this poor girl is.