In the Belly of the Bloodhound Read online

  Letting one of the crew—that one being the aforementioned beautiful, bashful Andrew—have some sort of claim on me, I did not have to fend off any other advances or attentions. And, as the Captain's son, Andrew does enjoy a certain privilege. I mean, who's gonna mess with the Captain's son's girl?

  Although I am usually quite free with my kisses, I held myself back and did not let it get to that. A little handholding is all, though I did take his arm as we promenaded the decks. As I've said, I was good, mostly, for, after all, am I not newly re-promised to Lieutenant James Emerson Fletcher? This I had to tell the crestfallen Mr. Billings after he asked me to marry him, one week into the voyage. "But, Andrew, if it were not for that, I would surely take you into my affections and give myself in marriage to you. Really, I would, for you are the kindest and sweetest of young men..." Right, Andy—get in line behind Randall Trevelyne, Robin Raeburne, Ishmael Turner, Joseph Jared, and a few others, and not necessarily in that order. And maybe Arthur McBride, that Irish devil, too...

  It was, by and large, a most pleasant journey, and three weeks, five days later, we pulled alongside a pier in Newport. In no time at all, my Morning Star was put over the side, rerigged, and I bounced down the gangway, with my seabag on my shoulder, to get into her. Before leaving the ship, though, I lifted my face to Andrew Billings and gave him a good one on the lips to remember me by. I do believe I gave the shy Mr. Billings something to remember and think about, and possibly in his next encounter with a female, he will have more confidence in himself and I will have done some good in this world. I'd like to think that.

  I steered out away from the Enterprise, for I wanted these good-byes to be quick and final—no hanging around sad-eyed young men for me, no sir, not when there's work to be done. I trimmed the sail, threw over the tiller, and pulled away for New York, waving to my friends of the past month till I was well out of sight. Then I reversed course and slipped into the docks on the south side of the town, where I figured I would not run into any members of the Enterprise crew, they being well occupied in off-loading their cargo.

  I had told them that I was headed for New York, in case anyone came around asking them questions, but I wasn't headed there at all—no, my plan was to outfit the Star and cruise up the southern side of Cape Cod and then across Massachusetts Bay to Boston.

  When last I saw Jaimy Fletcher, he was standing on the smouldering deck of the warship that had taken on board the survivors and the wounded of the smashed and sunken Wolverine, looking out at me as I pulled away in the lifeboat that was to become the Morning Star. In the midst of the destruction, I stood up and semaphored to him the word Boston so that he would know where I was intending to go, so's he could come collect me, should we both survive.

  Better do it this time, Jaimy...

  Ah, but I know he will, and there is to be no more doubting, not on my part. If he is able to come for me, he will.

  Chapter 3

  It turned out to be a very good thing that I left the Enterprise in the quick way I did, considering what I found tacked to a wall not an hour later. I had tied up the Star and gone off joyously shopping. I was outfitting my dear little Star, now the flagship of Faber Shipping, Worldwide, after all, and was quite excited about it—some line and a small anchor, an oil lamp, bedding, spirit stove and fuel, teapot, tea, sugar, water jug, cups, and all to be carefully stowed in my cabin. There's something in me that loves doing this sort of thing ... saying, This will go here and that will go here ... no ... there.

  I carried all these things back and happily stowed them in the Star and again went into the town to look about. I strolled up Thames Street, looking in all the shops, blissfully thinking nothing amiss, and—Hooray!—I found a post office, where I was able to mail my letter to the Home for Little Wanderers, in London, telling everyone that I had made it over all right and to please get word to Jaimy. Leaving there, I rolled on, feeling the strangely solid land beneath my feet once again. I spotted a likely looking fiddle sitting in a pawn shop window, and although my money belt was getting mighty light, I bought the fiddle, figuring it would help me pay my way up the coast. I tried her out in the shop, and while she was no Lady Lenore, she did have a certain spirit and I knew I would learn to love her.

  I was carrying the fiddle case back to the Star, thinking I was done shopping and would spend the night in the cuddy cabin, merrily rearranging things by lamplight, when I spied a piece of paper tacked to a post.

  Uh-oh...

  Publick Notice

  Hear ye, All ye Citizens of the Americas—Desired by the

  Gov't of His Majesty, King George III of England, the

  Quick Apprehension of the Notorious Pyrate

  Jacky Faber

  a Female, Aged about 16 years, on Charges of

  Piracy on the High Seas, Theft of Royal Property,

  and Other High Crimes and Misdemeanors.

  The Miscreant is Distinguished by having an Anchor

  Tattoo on her Belly and a Peculiarly White Left Eyebrow

  due to a Scar Beneath. She is extremely Small and Slender,

  weighing Approx. 90 Pounds, and has been known to

  Disguise her Person as a Boy by Donning Male Clothing.

  The Girl is a British Citizen, so Citizens of the United

  States should not think it Amiss to Apprehend her on

  Behalf of His Gracious Majesty. A reward of

  —250 Pounds, Sterling—

  is offered for the Capture and Delivery of said Criminal

  Alive to any of His Majesty's Consulates or Embassies.

  She may also be Bound Over and Delivered to any of

  His Majesty's Royal Ships that Commonly Lie at

  Anchor in Major Harbors. A Reward of 100 Pounds

  is offered if the Female is taken Dead, her Head and

  the Patch of Skin Containing the Tattoo, Preserved

  in Alcohol, being Considered Sufficient Proof

  for the Claiming of the Reward.

  WARNING!

  This Female is Known to be Extremely Clever and

  Duplicitous in Bending Unsuspecting Males to her Will.

  Although Godless and Without the Morals and

  Sensibilities usually Ascribed to her Sex, She is said to be

  Charming and Fair of Face and has been Educated and

  can Ape the Manners of her Betters, but

  Beware

  She carries both Sword and Pistol, as well as a Knife

  concealed on her Person, and is to be considered

  Extremely Dangerous, having Killed, by her own Hand, a

  Considerable Number of Unfortunate Men.

  Looking furtively about, I kept myself from running off in a blind panic. Seeing no one watching, I reached up and ripped off the poster and stuck it under my arm. And then I hurried, but not so fast as to raise suspicion, back toward the safety of my boat.

  They sure didn't miss much, the scurvy sods, I thought as I climbed down the ladder and dropped into the Star. But how did they know about the tattoo, I wonder? Hmmm ... Although I consider myself a girl of some virtue, it is true that I have in the past become separated from my clothes in the presence of more than one young man ... but neither Randall nor Robin nor Jaimy would peach on me. And neither would Petey or Higgins ... Ah, but of course—that damned book that Amy Trevelyne wrote about me! Wherein she told the entire English-speaking world about the Brotherhood of Ship's Boys of His Majesty's ship the Dolphin tattoo that rests on my right hip. Ah, Amy, if your aim in writing that book was to get me, well, you got me good.

  I quickly stowed my new fiddle, threw off the lines, hoisted the sail, and headed out of Newport Harbor, fuming over this latest bit of trouble. I particularly don't like the thought of my head floating in a crock of alcohol—don't they know that I have sworn that spirits will never again pass my lips? And here they want to put my whole head, lips and all, into a crock of pure alcohol. Damn! This poor Cockney's noggin might yet end up in an anatomist's jar, fo
r all her struggles to avoid that fate. And while we're at it, my tattoo's on my hip, not my belly, which you Admiralty sods oughta get right. After all, I am a lady ... well, most of the time, anyway ... and ladies don't have tattoos on their bellies.

  When well under way, I wasted no time at all in getting back into my sailor togs—not only for comfort and ease of movement, but also so that if anyone put a long glass on me and wondered what I was about, they'd figure me for a boy out fishing and think no more of it. Boys get to do what they want in this world, and girls do not.

  About an hour later, I pulled into a little cove, which my newly acquired chart told me was Sakonnet Cove in the lee of Price's Neck and which gave me and the Morning Star an excellent, calm anchorage next to a pleasant beach. In the light of my little lamp, I saw that some sort of town was over there to the west, but the lights winked out at dusk and there didn't seem to be much going on, which was all right, 'cause since my scare over the wanted poster, I didn't want to go ashore. Not just yet, anyway. Besides, outside, the weather was working up.

  I went on deck to make a final check that my anchor wasn't dragging and all was well, then went below for the night. I lit my little spirit stove and made tea and fried up some bacon, which I ate with bread and was content. I thought about doing some reading, but with the sea kicking up and the Star bucking about, I decided against it—couldn't have my lamp turning over and setting my boat afire. So I crawled into my bunk and pulled the covers over me and tried to settle down to sleep.

  I was worried that the nightmares would come again, and it is not an idle worry, for they do come often. I have always had nightmares. I had them back in the kip under Blackfriars Bridge when I was with the Rooster Charlie Gang, and I had them on the Dolphin. I had them especially after the pirate LeFievre put a rope around my neck and swung me out to hang. I had them in the dormitory of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls, awakening the whole place with my howls, and I had them on the Enterprise, where several times I had returned to consciousness shaking in the arms of Andrew Billings, who had entered the sanctity of my room, thinking my innocence was being attacked. I had them on the Wolverine, too, rousing my poor fellow midshipmen out of their slumbers, and on my Emerald as well, coming back to my confused senses, terrified and soaked with sweat, to find Higgins at my bedside, trying to soothe and comfort me out of my night horrors. Not only do I relive in my dreams the terror of being hanged by LeFievre or nearly being burned alive by Reverend Mather, but now the slaughter of Trafalgar presses upon my mind as well, and it presses on my mind not only when I have the night dreads, but even in the daytime, when I let myself dwell upon it—The arms thrusting through the ports of the Redoubtable, arms made bloody from my sword held in my hand, which was piercing them, through flesh and touching bone. Bloody arms, so much blood, and so many friends lost— and a black cloud comes over my mind and sometimes doesn't go away for too long a while.

  In my bed I shake my head to banish such thoughts. You will think on cheerier things, girl. I turn onto my side, wrap my arms around my legs and pull my knees to my chin, and smile to myself, thinking back to the Enterprise. I imagine the crew of that good ship has by now seen the wanted poster concerning the "Notorious Pyrate Jacky Faber." While Andrew didn't get anywhere near seeing my blue tattoo, my unmistakable white eyebrow would be a clincher on any suspicions anyone might have that I was the wanted one. I chuckle into my pillow as I picture Captain Billings fuming in front of the damning flyer, his Yankee trader heart breaking over the loss of the 250 pounds sterling reward that had been seated at his table for the past three weeks or so. I can also see in my mind's eye the same Captain Billings storming into his cabin and calling Andrew to him and slapping a copy of the poster in front of his young son, together with dire warnings about the "Pernicious Nature of Some Females"—Oh, soft and pliant and yielding in their appearances, with soft sighs and melting eyes, but oh so cunning and devious as well. Take warning from this, young man, beware, oh beware, lest you again clasp a serpent to your bosom.

  But I don't think young Andrew will take warning at all, nor will he beware. Truth to tell, I think he will relate the tale all through his life, when sharing a cup of cheer with his friends, of how he once courted and nearly won the heart of a famous pirate queen. It's all right, Andrew, you can tell tales on me, I won't mind. I just hope you don't believe all that stuff about me, 'cause it ain't all true—but let that go, as maybe it's best you think of me as a bad girl so that you'll give up all thoughts of me and find a nice, good girl to live your life with. Of course, in the retelling of our time together, you will embellish the romance, throwing in fevered kisses on the quarterdeck, with ragged breath and torn bodices and heaving bosoms and all, but so be it. Enjoy the tale, Andrew, and enjoy your life, for I found you to be an excellent young man. However, as a friend, I must tell you this: Should you marry and share a bottle of wine with your lovely bride, do not get so deeply into your cups that you are foolish enough as to tell your wife the story—she just might believe it.

  One thing they didn't describe on that poster was my new blue tattoo. No, it's not a real tattoo, but, like the one on my hip, certainly one I didn't want to get stitched on my skin. It is a small spray of little blue dots that radiate from the outer corner of my right eye. The dots are powder burns that I got when sighting over a cannon on the Wolverine and not getting out of the way fast enough after I pulled the firing matchlock. The burnt powder spit out of the touch hole and got me. They are hardly noticeable now and I can cover them with a pat of powder or a lock of my hair pulled down, but they are there. Come get me and marry me, Jaimy, and on our wedding night we shall strip me down and play count-the-scars. Won't that be ever so much fun?

  Good night, Jaimy. I hope you are safe and well. I wish you were snugged up here beside me, I do wish that. But, maybe someday...

  Chapter 4

  Log of the Morning Star, November 22,1805. Anchored in Sakonnet Cove, Rhode Island, U.S.A. Storm continues. Hope to get under way tomorrow. Bottom sand and mud. Seas very rough. Anchor holding, thanks be to God.

  I decided to keep a log of my journeys on the Morning Star, as I did on the Emerald. It became a habit during my time on Royal Navy ships, and once I get into habits, I find them hard to break. It is the fussy part of my nature, I suppose, but so be it. It gives me comfort to do it and it may well be that, in the future, I might find these entries amusing ... or maybe nostalgic, even. You sit still, young Master James, while your grandmother reads to you from the sea logs she kept when Faber Shipping, Worldwide, was just beginning. Here! Leave your sister alone! You want a smack, young man? I thought not. That's better. Ahem ... Now, where were we? Ah. All right, yes, well, I was just getting over the setback of the loss of my dear Emerald. I was back in Massachusetts, alone on the Morning Star ... What? Your grandfather? Well, at the time I didn't know. After the Great Battle, I guessed that he would be assigned to another ship. I did hope that he would come to get me, though, but I couldn't blame him if he didn't, it was such a turbulent time, those years of war with that Napoléon...

  Actually, I hoped that this log would meet a somewhat better fate than the log of the Emerald, which now rests at the bottom of the sea. If any mermaids can read, I hope they are enjoying both my ship and the contents of the log.

  Morning Star log, November 23, 1805. Ain't going nowhere. Storm still raging. Am bobbing like cork. Cannot even make tea. Eating dry biscuits. Got belly cramps. Nightmares. Am sick and miserable and feeling very sorry for self.

  Morning Star log, Nov. 24. Ain't got nothing good to say. Seas still high. Black clouds out there and black clouds in my mind. To hell with this. To hell with everything.

  Chapter 5

  Morning Star log, November 25. Skies clearing. Seas subsiding. Mood much improved. Hauled anchor, stopped whining, and set sail on Course 079, making for Horseneck Beach on Cape Cod in Massachusetts.

  The Star is fairly ripping along, and with the wind in my hair, my hand on t
he tiller, and my foot up on the gunwale, I am feeling much better. The Black Cloud that sometimes comes over my mind is gone, but I worry that it might be back soon, and I just cannot let it. I know it's because I've seen so much blood, so much death, but death is so common, why should I care? One can as easily die from a fever as from a French cannonball, I know that, but it doesn't make it any easier for me somehow. I shall try to keep the Black Cloud off. But I don't know...

  This morning I was able to make tea and biscuits with butter and warmed maple syrup and it was good and I am content. Really.

  Star log, Nov. 25, cont. Have made landfall at Horseneck Beach. Have tied up at dock. Am now in the state of Massachusetts. Looked about for opportunity to work at my musical trade. Found none. No taverns. No inns.

  I was hoping to find an out-of-the-way tavern where I could play a couple of sets, but no luck. At least there were no wanted posters starring my own poor self, and I got to pass a pleasant evening tied up to a dock. There was a tannery there and I was able to buy a small jar of brown leather dye. when I was back on the Star, I used it to color my white eyebrow. It's not an exact match with my other one, but it will do.

  Star log, cont. Bought fish from boy on dock. Cooked it. Ate it. Practiced my new fiddle. Disturbed no one but the gulls. Threw off lines and anchored a little ways off for the night, for safety's sake. Note to self: Buy a stout lock for cabin at first opportunity. So to bed.

  I have named my new fiddle the Lady Gay, in the tradition of the Lady Lenore. No, my Gay is not in the same league with Gully MacFarland's Lenore, but still she has some depth, and she has a friskiness about her that I find appealing. I named her after that old ballad in which this mighty Lord Arlen is off at the King's court, consecrating King Henry the Eighth or somesuch, when this boy, this page as they were called, from back at his castle, rushes all breathless up to him, fairly bursting with news. Lord Arlen asks him what's up with his castle and his farm and how's his wife that he left behind, and the little snitch opens his mouth and: