Rapture of the Deep Read online

  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."

  "Where are your children now?"

  "Don't know. Sold off."

  There is an eternity of suffering in her eyes, but she does not lower her head, just stares straight at the wall behind me.

  "What happened?"

  "Mastah Hamilton died and soon after Missus Hamilton did, too. And then their children got to squabblin' over the property, and the people they owed money to came after 'em an' so the place was broke up. All the Nigras was sold and here I am."

  I consider all this for a while and then say, "Jemimah, I have here your permanent indenture papers before me. I have written on them words to the effect that, when I sign it, you shall be freed of servitude. You shall be free."

  The dark eyes now come down upon mine. "What? You can do that? But you ... you a girl and hardly more than a child."

  "That may be true, but I do own this boat, and until I put this pen to that paper, I do own you."

  A chuckle rumbles deep in her throat. "Free? Huh! How 'bout that?"

  "You'll need a last name, Jemimah," I say, my pen poised over the paper. "What will it be?"

  She thinks for a moment and then says, "Moses. Jemimah Moses," and I write it down. At the time, I thought she was naming herself after the prophet who led the Hebrew children out of slavery in Egypt, but I find out much later that I was wrong in thinking that.

  She looks off into the shadowy corners of my cabin. "Free at last. My, my, I'm free at last."

  I take the pen and scribble my name on the paper. "Yes, you are, Jemimah Moses. As of this moment you are free."

  Somehow I expected more joy, more gratitude, but I don't get it.

  "So I'm free. Free to jump over the side of this boat if'n I want to, that kind of free?"

  "Whatever you want to do, Jemimah, do it ... But listen to this, first. From now on, and for however long you wish to remain in that position, you are an employee of Faber Shipping Worldwide and will receive pay of ten dollars a month, five dollars of which will be withheld to eventually pay back the one hundred and fifty dollars I have invested in you. And you will receive a half of one share of whatever we make on this voyage. Do you understand that?"

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  "And if you want to leave us at our next port call, you may. Here's the papers sayin' that you are now a free person of color. Keep them with you and don't lose them. They are very important."

  I hand her the folded papers and she takes them.

  "And you've got to stop callin' me Ma'am. You may choose from Jacky, Missy, Skipper, Captain, or Boss, or Miss, all names my crew use for me."

  "Yes, Miss Jacky," she says, choosing a name not on the list.

  Hmmmm...

  Chapter 18

  As for what I did on the rest of that journey southward, well, I spent my idle time in several pursuits. The first was to take cloth and needle and make a replica of my old pirate flag, the one that I had lost when I was taken by Captain Trumbull of HMS Wolverine. That particular flag now rests at the bottom of the sea off Cape Trafalgar with that same Wolverine and many others. Many others, I think with sorrow, some made of iron and wood, and some made of skin and bone. But I let that go.

  Members of the Piratical Brotherhood design and fly their own flags, not only so they can strike terror into the prey they are pursuing, but also so they'll be able to recognize one another so as not to blow one another out of the water upon an unfortunate chance meeting. In my travels, I have found that there is some honor among thieves. Not much, but a bit. Some of the flags are red while others are black, but almost all have some version of a skull, however crudely done, upon them. My own Jolly Roger has a white skull on a black background, with two crossed bones below. A pretty common design, except that my skull wears a huge, open-mouthed grin. There were many stitches in the making of it, but Joannie helped me sew a lot of them as we sat cross-legged on the deck of my cabin, needles and thread in hand, giggling over the evilness in what we were doing. They taught her well at the Home, I see.

  Second, I set about, with the help of Tink—who has shown himself to be very good with his hands and has become our ship's carpenter, ship fitter, and all-around handyman—to fashion a pair of those goggles I had mentioned before so that I will be able to see better when I am underwater. I want some like the ones I had seen on those Arab coin divers when I was in the Mediterranean on the Emerald in '04.

  We make my pair using thick leather into which are set two round disks of glass like those used for circular miniature portraits. Cutting the leather to fit both the glass and my eye sockets was difficult, but by trial and error, we got it done. There are two straps of lighter leather that tie behind my head to hold the goggles tight to my face. When I am ready to go down, we'll seal the eyeglass edges with pine pitch to make them watertight, I hope.

  Third, I plan to train certain members in a particular skill...

  As we pass Key Largo, the first of the Upper Keys of Florida, and observing that it is a very mild day with little wind, the wa
ter being warm and getting quite clear, I decide to accomplish some of that training.

  The day also being a Sunday, I call the crew to Church, something I seldom do—well, actually never have done before—and after they line up, slightly mystified, before me as I stand on the quarterdeck, I read a few verses from the Bible, those that speak to our condition. Then I lead them in a few hymns, all of which they musically butcher. When we finish that last atonal atrocity, I offer up a prayer for our safety and the health of those we love who are not here with us today.

  Then I lift my voice and say, "Instead of a sermon today, I shall read from the Cor-po-rate By-Laws of Faber Shipping Worldwide." I think of Captain Locke reading out the Articles of War back on the Dolphin, outlining all the crimes we poor sailors might be guilty of, all of which were punishable by death, as I pull out a sheaf of papers that actually have no words written on them, just sketches of butterflies, and begin to recite.

  "Ahem! Section Two, Article One. All members of this Corporation shall present a Clean and Orderly Appearance consistent with the Usual Standards of Nautical Dress..."

  That gets a few snickers since I myself am dressed in my usual warm-weather nautical gear of loose white shirt, short buckskin skirt, and bare legs and feet.

  "Article Two. All members shall learn to read and write in an acceptable manner." Groans from Daniel and Joannie on this.

  "Article Three. All members shall demonstrate an ability to swim."

  Here I fold up the papers and put them under my arm before concluding. "Mr. Thomas and Mr. McGee, if you will please grasp Seaman Jones by the arms and hold him fast, I would be most grateful."

  Davy, who has been standing with his arms folded, looking up at me with an air of complete and contemptuous indifference to what I have been saying, now stares with concern at the two huge, grinning seamen who stand by his side, holding him tightly. Then he looks back at me and glowers. Davy, though he has gotten over being torn so abruptly from his dear Annie's side, does still chafe somewhat on being under my command. Well, we'll see about that, boyo...

  "We shall commence your swimming lesson right now, Seaman Jones. You should not fear for your life as you have just been to church and washed clean of your sins, many though I suspect those sins to be. Washed in the Blood of the Lamb, as it were. Well, now you shall be washed in God's own great salt sea, as well, and I am sure you will profit by it," I say grandly, still in church mode. "Mr. Tanner, if you will please affix that line around Seaman Jones's waist. Thank you, Jim."

  Earlier, seeing that we were in very light winds and were scarcely making two knots, the pace of a leisurely walk on land, I figured this was a good time to begin Davy's swimming lessons—and maybe bring him down a peg as well. I had Jim attach a stout pulley to the end of the main yard and run a line through it—that same line that now tightly encircles Davy's waist.

  Davy struggles but to no avail. "Now, Mate, it won't be so bad, you'll see," says Smasher McGee. "She had me and John Thomas do the same thing when last we was down here, and now we can swim like any fishes and don't fear a dip in the old salt, not no more we don't."

  There is an air of barely suppressed hilarity on the Nancy B. All the rest of the able-bodied men have previously passed the swimming test and know that they shall not be subjected to this. Jim Tanner learned to swim when we were on the Mississippi, and Daniel Prescott, being a river rat since birth, already knew how, and my good John Higgins spent many happy hours as a youth with other young lads in a deep millpond near where he grew up in Colchester.

  Nay, all of the other men are qualified and now it is Davy's turn, and he accepts his fate. He looks at me with a grim smile that says, I'll get you for this, Jacky.

  Ignoring the look, I ask, "Now, Davy, would you like to shed any of your clothes? We are not shy in that way here on the Nancy B., and I remember that you were not at all shy in dropping your drawers when we all went into the Dolphin's bowsprit netting back when we were children."

  He toes off his shoes and then pulls his red and white striped shirt off over his head. I notice he has grown more hair on his chest since last I saw it bared. Then he undoes the drawstring of his white trousers and lets them drop, leaving him standing there only in his drawers.

  "Whyn't you drop the drawers, too, Davy?" giggles Joannie, who has all along been convulsed with laughter over the proceedings.

  I ignore her, too, and go up nose to nose with Davy. "Remember, Brother, that time back on the Dolphin, when you called me the little fairy and then the rest of the Brotherhood picked it up and called me that, too? Hmmm?"

  He sets his jaw, stares straight ahead, and does not reply.

  I turn away and say, "Throw him over," and they do it.

  He sinks straight down when he hits the water. "Take up the slack, Tink," I say, giving the thumbs-up signal. The rope tightens and Davy is hauled, sputtering, back to the surface.

  "Stroke with your arms, Davy. Kick with your legs. When you can keep up with the ship, we'll bring you back aboard."

  We all lean over the rail and shout encouragement. Joannie stands beside me, laughing and fairly jumping up and down in her glee over poor Davy's watery struggles.

  Davy thrashes about, but he does not seem to be getting it.

  I step back from the rail and unfasten the drawstring of my buckskin skirt, slide it off, and hand it to Higgins.

  All of my crew have seen me do this many times and are quite used to it. Dr. Sebastian, however, has not, and I see his eyebrows go up in mild surprise. I tuck the loose shirt into the waistband of my short underdrawers, hop up on the rail, and dive in.

  I resurface close to Davy—close, but just out of his reach, as I know he'd risk punishment for the chance to give me a bit of a strangle.

  "Watch me, Brother," I say, beginning to swim. "Like this, see? Nice and easy now, arm over arm, kick your feet. Turn your face to take a breath with each stroke. That's it, keep it going."

  He does, and eventually he is able to do it to my satisfaction and is hauled back up, to the cheers of his shipmates. Jim tosses me down a rope, but I do not climb up it, not yet, anyway.

  I do hang on to the line to rest for a moment, and say, "Mr. Tanner, will you please divest Seaman Apprentice Joan Nichols of her shirt and trousers, affix the rope about her, and send her down here?"

  Joannie's eyes—which had been watching me down here below—pop wide open, no longer with the delight of watching someone else's troubles, oh no, but now with fear for her own. Then her face disappears from the rail as she turns to flee. To no avail, of course. There is the sound of some struggle, accompanied by squeals from her and laughter from the crew, but eventually she comes flying over the side.

  Shrieking, she splashes into the water next to me, eyes squeezed tightly shut, arms and legs flailing about. I start swimming slowly beside her.

  "Now, Joannie, no reason to be afraid ... Here, like this ... Stroke ... Stroke ... Open your eyes. Yes, that's it..."

  And so, all in all, we had a very good trip down, and on Christmas Day, 1806, we dropped anchor two miles off Key West, Florida, and, being only ninety-some miles from Cuba, it's very much in the Spanish Main.

  Chapter 19

  Sunlight filters down through the clear, blue-green water, dappling the coral reef below me. It is not deep, only about twenty feet down, and I give my feet a kick and swim down to it. Ah, there are some nice sponges over there. I pull my shiv from my forearm sheath and go collect them, sawing off their stems and stuffing them into the net bag that hangs by my side. Pretty little fish come around to peer at me, all brightly colored and curious. There are some bigger fish down there, too, lurking in the crevices of the coral, but I shan't mess with them—not now, anyway. Later I'll dive down with my trident and see what I can do about dinner.

  Another kick and I glide over the reef and look down into the abyss that lies on the seaward side of the reef. I cannot see to the bottom of it, and that is a pity, for I know that somewhere down there is where
the Santa Magdalena rests, where she lies silent with her dead ... and with all her gold.

  Ship's Log: The schooner Nancy B. Alsop. December 28, 1806. Anchored in five fathoms of water, two miles off Key West, Spanish Territory of Florida. Bottom sand and coral. Taking on sponges and scientific specimens. Weather calm. No other vessels in sight.

  "Look, Jacky!" cries Dr. Sebastian. "Right down there! Do you see it? Right next to that fan coral!"

  I see it, all right—a particularly disgusting-looking creature with a slug's body and yellow tentacles sticking out of what I suppose is its back.

  "I believe it is what is called a Spanish Shawl, a member of the Nudibranch family of Gastropods, Flabellina iodinea!" exults the Doctor. "Oh, Miss, we simply must have it!"

  We are both lying belly down on the raft that is tied beside the Nancy B., peering through the glass-bottomed buckets we have designed for scanning the sea floor for specimens and possible treasure. We took Spanish Lieutenant Carlos Maria Santana Juarez at his word concerning the approximate location of the Santa Magdalena, but we have found nothing yet in that regard, which is not surprising. We know she is deep, and probably rotted away by now, and I can only dive down so far. Still, we hope.