Chapter 34

We hold a Council of War in my cabin—Liam, Reilly, me, and Higgins. We’ve been out for four days and ain’t seen nothing yet, nothing worth taking. We boarded some fishing boats and all they had on them was fish so we bought some and let the boats go. Never let it be said that Jacky Faber is a common thief, not nowadays, anyway.

“I say we head south and go worry the Dagos off the coast of Spain. The Frogs know us too well around here and are laying low it seems. Else we got ’em all,” I say.

“Well, it sure would be warmer,” says Reilly, “and I wouldn’t mind that.” I hadn’t really thought about it till now, but it is getting on into late November and there’s a definite chill in the air.

“Any prizes we got would have to be brought a farther way back, to sell at Harwich,” says Liam, leaning back and plainly thinking it over. “Sure ain’t no places down in Spain we could sell ’em without us getting hanged for it. Have to protect ’em on the way back up, too, as well as ourselves. Lots of Spanish privateers down there. Thanks, Higgins.” Higgins has our silver coffeepot and is refilling the porcelain cups we got off that second ship the Wolverine took. “But it’s all right with me,” says Liam, finally, and the plan is approved.

John Reilly and Liam leave the cabin, and from outside I hear them give the orders to come about for the south. I settle back in my chair and prepare for some reading, or maybe some practice on the Lady Lenore, but, oh no, it is not to be.

“Miss, if you would have a seat,” says Higgins, “I think we need to redo your hair.”

Uh, oh. That’s Higgins’s way of saying, Sit down, you ignorant slug, I want to talk some sense into what passes for your brain.

I sigh and plunk down. The Continuing Education of Jacky Faber . . .

He takes my pigtail and unbraids it and begins to brush my hair. Uummmm, that does feel good . . .

“You might consider, Miss,” he begins . . . And here it comes, I think . . .“now as you grow in wealth and will no doubt soon go into Society, that you might consider avoiding using such words as Frog and Dago, as many people find them offensive.”

What?

“But they’re the enemy, Higgins, why not call them what we want to call them and bugger their feelings?”

Higgins sniffs. “‘Bugger’ is another word you might profitably drop from your vocabulary, Miss. But I digress. I have come to know you to be a young lady who is pure of heart and free of prejudice, but sometimes you seem to . . . without thinking, I believe . . . express yourself in a manner rather rude as regards another person’s origins.”

“All right, Higgins. I’ll listen, if you keep brushing.”

“Very well. Now, there are many in Britain who can claim either French or Spanish ancestry. Your own Captain Delaney proudly claims descent from the Spanish Armada. Many, many people have relatives across the Channel—after all, we have been living next to each other for thousands of years, even though we’ve been at war for most of that time.”

“Hmm,” I hum, unconvinced. Once again someone is telling Jacky Faber to clean up her mouth. It always seems to be the thing to do, don’t you know . . .

“And as for being enemies, does not one honor one’s enemies and accord them a measure of respect if they act in an honorable manner? Does not a captain in any service, French, English, or Spanish, put on his finest uniform before a battle as a gesture of respect to his enemy?”

“They say that’s why they do it,” I snort, “but I thinks it’s ’cause they want to have their best clothes on their back if they’re captured and so their best duds can’t be stolen by some snot-nosed sublieutenant or, if they’re killed, they want to leave a good-looking corpse.”

“Well, we all want that, don’t we? But is that why you dress up each time we attempt to take a ship?”

“Higgins, you know damn well I do it to prance around and show off,” I laugh, but I take his words to heart. And well I should, for who knows better than I from my time at the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls that words can pierce the heart as surely as swords? I know I didn’t like being called “the Tory” back in Boston, or “the little fairy” on board the Dolphin, or “the Captain’s whore” on the Wolverine, and for sure, there’s been more front teeth lost to the word “Mick” than to any dentist’s pliers. I sigh a great sigh and resolve to take his advice and be good.

“All right, Higgins, I will do it. No more Frogs, Dagos, Spics, Yanks, Blackamoors, Portagees, Hunkies, Polacks, Russkies, Chinks, Japs, Hindoos, no more . . .”

“All right, Miss. I think I know your intent and I am glad of it.”

 

It’s two hours into the noon watch and I’m sitting up in the maintop, scanning the horizon for something interesting and finding nothing save a few seabirds floating high overhead. Should save myself the trouble, I think, the lookout high above me would see anything before I did. I lean back against the rail and look up at my sails all white and tight up there, as they should be, and I relax in the sun.

Spread across my lap is a length of black cloth, about four feet square, for I am making yet another flag and I am almost finished. On it I have stitched a cutout piece of white cloth, shaped in the form of a grinning skull, very much like the Death Angel heads I saw in the churchyard next to the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls back in Boston, and under this I have put two white, crossed bones. I would not think of using this flag for ordinary prize taking—the people on the ships we take are scared enough already and I find my reputation is going in a way I don’t really like—but suppose, just suppose we run into a French or Spanish privateer or any kind of pirate for that matter, who might want to bag us? If we crack out this flag at the mainmast when he comes close, well, maybe he might just think twice and slack off, as he would then know that we are not helpless prey, and he would most surely get his nose bloodied if he attempted to take us.

Putting the last stitches in around the teeth of the skull, I reflect that Mistress Pimm, she who tried to teach me embroidery, among other things, might be proud of my effort here. Maybe.

I put up my needle and look out over the water again. We’ve had a good breeze and the Emerald is fairly tearing along. We’ll be down in Da—down in Spanish territory before too long and perhaps we’ll find something choice, maybe we’ll . . . what?

There is a commotion down below and I throw the flag aside to go see what is the matter. When my feet hit the deck, I see Sheehan, one of the older hands in the Port Watch Section, coming out of the forward hatch, dragging someone by the neck.

“Here!” I cry, and hop down on the main deck, “I’ll have no fighting on my ship, Jack Sheehan!”

Sheehan, a big man, grins from ear to ear and says, “No fightin’, Miss! I just caught me a big rat! A stowaway!”

What? Who would . . .

The rat in question has its head down ’cause of the way its neck is being held by Sheehan’s mighty paw. Looks like it might be a boy—barefoot with white trousers and shirt and a large floppy cap.

“Bring him here!” I order and Sheehan pushes the stowaway forward and stands him up in front of me and I look into green eyes and . . . Oh. My . . .

“What’s going on here, then?” says Liam, coming up next to me. The stowaway’s large floppy hat chooses this time to fall off her head and the red curls tumble out. The entire crew is up on deck now and there is a common gasp.

Liam cannot say anything for a moment—he can only stand and stare, openmouthed and goggle-eyed, then . . .

“Mairead!” he roars, loud enough to wake up half of Spain, if not China, too.

I’ve seen Liam Delaney truly, truly crazy mad only twice—once when that Sloat come at me with wicked intent back on the Dolphin, and right now, when he glares into the green and defiant eyes of his eldest girl.

Sheehan, who has just realized he is holding his Captain’s daughter by the throat, jerks his hand away as if he suddenly found he was holding a snake. Mairead falls to the deck, gasping for breath—that Sheehan does have hands like a vise.

“I’ll not go back! I’ll not marry that awful Loomis Malloy! If you send me back, I will run away again!” she cries, tears running down her face as she gets to her feet. Liam starts rolling up his sleeves. “I don’t care!” she blubbers. “Beat me to death if you want, but I won’t go back! I’ll run away again and again!”

“You are going to get the thrashing of your life, you are . . .”

I go and put myself between Liam and Mairead, and I see Ian McConnaughey coming forward, too. No, Ian, not now . . .

“Please, Liam, do not beat her,” I say, putting her behind me. “Let’s go down in my cabin and talk this over.” I feel Mairead’s hands on my waist, keeping me between her and her completely maddened father.

“Who put you up to this? Was it a man? A member of my crew?” he shouts at her, ignoring me. “McBride! Get up here!”

Arthur McBride, who I’ve got to agree would be the one most likely to hatch such a prank, steps forward, a barely suppressed grin on his foolish face. “Sir?” he says, plainly getting in a good look at Mairead in her less than modest outfit.

“Did you have anything to do with this?” asks Liam through his bared and clenched teeth.

“Nay,” says Arthur McBride, who never, it seems, knows when to keep his lip buttoned. “She’s Ian’s piece, anyway.”

“Ian’s piece, is she,” growls Liam. “McConnaughey!” I hope Arthur realizes just how close he came to being thrown overboard and drowned. Probably the fool doesn’t, ’cause he merely stands there grinning.

Ian presents himself, a bit shakily. He looks over at Mairead with big moonstruck calf eyes and she back at him in the same sort of way.

“Did you know of this?” again comes the question from Liam.

“No, but I wish I did,” says Ian, who must be taking lessons in foolishness from his boon companion, Arthur McBride. “But, no, I did not know and would not have allowed her to do it if I did.” Well, there’s some sense being spoken here at last.

The lad crosses himself when he says this, whether as proof of the truth of what he’s saying, or in anticipation of his coming death, I can’t tell, but Liam sure ain’t convinced. “You and your friends’ve been sniffin’ around her like dogs in rut and don’t think I don’t know it, you miserable sneaking little cur!”

Ian’s face goes white with anger. He’s scared of Liam, true, but he’s Irish, too, and he won’t take that from anyone, and he spits out, “’tis true I love Mairead with all my heart and soul, and I respect you as her father and as my Captain, but call me a dog again, man, and I will . . .”

“Take her down and put her in the leg irons. Clamp her to the bulkhead in the foulest part of the bilge. Do it NOW!” roars Liam.

I stay in front of Mairead. “She’ll slip out of the leg iron, she will. It’s too big for her ankle and too small for her neck, and we don’t have a brig for a cell. Please, Liam, let her stay with me. For company, like. It gets a bit lonely for me sometimes when we’re under way and I would welcome her company. We’ll look for one more prize, then take her and everybody else back to Waterford for the winter. It’ll be fine, you’ll see. She’ll get this seafarin’ stuff out of her system and settle down—not with Loomis, maybe, but with some good man—you’ll see . . . now calmness, Liam. Please, Father, do this.”

I make hand signals behind Liam’s back for Arthur and Ian to make themselves scarce. Arthur makes sure he gets in a last look at Mairead’s rump in her trousers and then goes down the hatch. But Ian doesn’t, he just stands there looking at Mairead.

“Please, Liam, down in my cabin, now. Please, Father, down in my cabin, now please, both of you!”