It’s morning and the Rock hasn’t yet appeared over the horizon. It’s a gloriously warm day, so to kill some time, I take a few of my braver Newgaters—Mary Wade, Molly Reiby, and Esther—up to the bowsprit for a bit of a toss in the spray. It’s just like in the old days with Davy, Willy, Tink, and Jaimy, and yes, later with Mairead, too. And oh, it is so much fun! I bring these girls down because I know there will be those wild and merry dolphins all around. And sure enough, there they are, leaping about and making sport of our slow progress through the water. Slow to them, anyway. Actually, we’re fairly ripping along.
Fly, Lorelei, fly . . .
“Look, Molly, there’s one! No, there’s five! Look how they jump! Aren’t they marvelous!”
The thing of it is, there’s a net spread out under the bowsprit to catch any unfortunate sailor who might slip and fall as he is tending the fore-and-aft sails way up forward, but that is not what it is for us. For us it is a safe and marvelous ride through the swells of the Atlantic as we approach the Rock of Gilbraltar, the gateway to the Mediterranean. When a particularly large swell comes along, the Lorelei Lee goes bow under and we get dunked, only to come up sputtering and squealing with glee. The girls were quite fearful at first, but they got over it quickly, as they are a game bunch.
We’re clad only in our undershirts and drawers, but considering what sort of ship we are on, it ain’t much of a scandal. We ain’t in much danger in the way of unwanted advances from the crew, since most of them seem now to have paired up with the dolly of their choice and are satisfied with their current condition. Besides, we’re the youngest ones and not as full bosomed as the girls of the other Crews, and being quite buxom does seem to be the preferred shape in the way of a temporary wife. But the three ship’s boys certainly seem interested in our watery antics as they lean down over the rail to peer at the four young girls frolicking about in soaked and clinging drawers.
“Stand up out of the water, Mary Wade,” cries young Quist. “Let’s see what you got!” His mates Denny Farley and Moe Suggins enthusiastically echo his request.
“What I got is not for you, boy, so now get on wi’ all o’ ye, and leave us alone,” says the object of their scrutiny.
Mary Wade is certainly not another Joan Nichols, my Joannie who is back in Boston being made into a fine lady, just like I was. No. Though they both were street kids, Mary seems a lot tougher, inside and out. Joannie had a sweet self hidden beneath all that street gang roughness, but I don’t know about this Mary. Course Joannie had never been condemned to die at age ten and then thrown into Newgate prison to await hanging, like Mary had been, either. That sort of thing tends to work on your mind and on your general outlook of life. We shall see.
Harry Quist does not leave . . . that is, not until First Mate Ruger appears at the rail. Then he and his mates vanish in a flash. Ruger stands regarding me with steady gaze and crossed arms. I do not acknowledge his presence and instead turn back to crashing through the next swell, and it’s a good deep one . . . Glorious!
When I resurface, I see that the First Mate has been replaced up there by . . . what? . . . the Shantyman? He is surrounded by a mob of garrulous sailors, one of whom bears a length of rope, so I know what is going to happen next . . .
Over the past week or so on the Lorelei Lee, it has become a tradition, an initiation, like, for each man to be taken down, such that he can place his grubby hands on the chest of my beautiful figurehead and so become full-fledged Lorelei Mates in Good Standing, all rights and privileges therewith appertaining and all that. Most of the more able hands clamber over the under-bowsprit netting to accomplish this task, but some are less nimble and do not. Early on, the squalling young Ship’s Boy Quist was bound about his hips and legs and lowered upside down to do the deed, which he eventually did with much relish.
It was Captain Laughton’s own turn several days ago, so he allowed himself to be placed into a reasonably comfortable Bo’sun’s Chair and lowered down in range of the quarry, where he did his duty with the Lorelei. He endured it all in good spirits and called it excellent fun—“Har-har! Just wait till we get all of you down to the equator when King Neptune himself comes aboard. Then we shall see, my fine laughing ladies. Then we shall see . . .”
But now, on this day, it is the Shantyman’s turn. He, unlike Quist, is treated like an officer on the ship. The men would not think of touching him without permission, but it seems he has granted that, since he grins widely as he is bound up and put over. They treat the Shantyman much more kindly than they did Quist and his mates, and, indeed, even more gently than they did the Captain.
“Can’t be a true member of the crew of the Lorelei Lee, Sir, if ye ain’t touched the chest of the mermaid, now can ye, Sir? Careful there, Mr. Lightner, easy now.”
Enoch Lightner is lowered within range of the mermaid and all her charms.
The Shantyman runs his hands over the Lorelei’s lower parts and then, to the delight of the seamen, starts to sing . . .
’Twas on the Good Ship Venus,
By Christ, you should have seen us,
The figurehead of a whore in bed
And a mast like an . . .
. . . and here he stops, for he has run his knowing fingers over the carved face of the wooden figurehead. Then he laughs and says, “Are you down there, Faber?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Ah. I thought I recognized your voice,” he says, leaving his hands on the Lorelei’s face. “And I think I’m seeing something else, too . . .”
Uh-oh . . .
And then I am saved, once again . . .
“On deck there! Land ho! It is the Rock!”
Later, when we have dried off and have gotten dressed, I climb into the rigging, and yes, it is the mighty Rock of Gibraltar that looms over us as we are warped in and tied up to the Mole, a long earthwork breakwater and pier. My girls below me on the deck are amazed at the massiveness of the thing and gape in wonder.
“Aye, ladies, it is not called the Pillar of Hercules for nothing,” say I. “Is it not grand?”
They allow that it is, but then they see that there are at least four other ships—Royal Navy ships at that—tied up to that pier, and many sailors hang in the rigging of those ships and look avidly at us as we come in, all of our Crews festooned on deck and in our rigging. There are at least four hundred men on each of those ships—that’s a lot of potential customers.
“But Jacky,” says Esther, “all the other Crews will be out there making money, lots of it, and then, when it comes to the bidding for berths, we will have little. So we’ll be tossed out of our berth, and I, for one, like the light and air up above. I sure don’t want to go down into that dark hold.”
“Steady on, Esther, we’ll see what turns up. I have plans, trust me. The Newgaters shall not go down into the bottom of the hold,” I say. And as for you, Esther, you don’t have to worry about going into any dark hole as long as you have young Major Johnston longin after you.
The Lorelei Lee is expertly brought into her berth under Captain Laughton’s stern gaze, and as we are being tied up, he turns from his nautical duties on his quarterdeck to address his cargo.
“Ladies!” he calls. “We are in the port of Gibraltar! There are four Royal Navy ships moored about us here, as well. There is also a garrison of two thousand men quartered up at the fort. You see a long pier here that is called the Mole. You will be confined to that place, and there will be a guard placed at the end of that pier to insure that none of you leave it. The other ships moored here are the Surprise, the Laurentian, the Indomitable, and the Redoubt. I have been apprised by their captains that well-behaved ladies will be allowed aboard their respective ships for the three days we will be in port.”
There is a general cheer at this, and not all coming from the Lorelei Lee.
“The under-sixteens, both male and female, are not allowed off,” continues the Captain, once again occasioning groans from Quist and his lads. “And on Sunday morning, two days from now, when the ship’s bell rings six times, everyone must be back aboard. Anyone late will suffer twelve strokes of the rod. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir!” is the general female chorus, eager to be off.
“Mrs. Barnsley, Mrs. Berry, and Mrs. MacDonald,” intones the Captain. “Take care of your girls . . . and remember, madams . . . my twenty percent. And now, liberty call! And let Venus, Bacchus, and Cupid rule!”
And rule they do . . .
There is general riot throughout that evening and night. I counsel my lasses to lie low, so we gather down in the galley to sip strong coffee with Cookie and Keefe, telling stories of the Bloodhound and such. As the noise of the riot grows higher, I sneak out of there and down to a certain storeroom, where I know the wine is stored, and though I could be whipped for it, make off with three bottles of the best, along with some select cheeses, and head back to the galley. Once there, we divide it all up, and Cookie adds some fresh and fluffy biscuits, so our magnificent feast is even finer.
A few more stories and songs and then we go down to our berth and turn in to our hammocks, while the sounds of merriment outside continue unabated.
“Good night, ladies,” I say, burrowing my face into my pillow—yes, Higgins had gotten me one, bless him. “Think of how much better you will feel come morning than your wayward sisters.”
Good night, Jaimy, I pray that you are safe.