My Bonny Light Horseman (4 page)

"Ha, ha! Mr. Bliffil," crows the Captain, "it seems your little bee has a stinger! For your own safety you must come back aboard. Don't worry, our marines will see to your fearsome captive!"

There are roars of laughter from the man-of-war and Bliffil reddens and says, just loud enough for me to hear, "Oh, I will get you for this, slut, and for what you did to me back on the
Dolphin,
oh, yes, I will." And he climbs back aboard the other ship, the ship whose name I do not yet know but which will be my home for many, many days. Perhaps, even, my last home.

Two Marines come up to me and one of them takes me by the arm. "Give me the knife and come along," he says.

"Please wait a moment, Corporal. Higgins, if you would get my seabag?"

Higgins nods and goes below and returns with not only my seabag but also his.

"We are ready. Lead on, soldier," says Higgins.
Higgins, you can't...

"Hold on there," says Bliffil, upon seeing that Higgins means to go with me. "Just the girl. Not the man. She cannot be allowed any allies on board."

"Why not?" asks the Captain.

"Sir, she has her ways of bending men of low degree to her will. She has been in command of two ships, and one of them was a British warship, the
Wolverine
!"

"
That,
" says the Captain, pointing at me, "was in command of one of His Majesty's ships? Impossible, Sir!"

"The books, Sir, the stories that are told throughout the fleet," pleads Bliffil. "She is that very one!"

"I never believed those stories," snorts the Captain, "but very well. The Intelligence Branch must be served, I suppose. Bring her aboard alone."

I am shoved forward. "Sergeant, will you take my bag and see that my knife goes back in it? Thank you."

The Marine looks up to the Captain, who nods and says, "Yes, her bag, too. Maybe she has something presentable in there that she can wear on the voyage."

"Good-bye, Higgins," I say, an unbidden tear working its way down my cheek. "You have been so good to me."

"Good-bye for now, Miss," he replies, loud enough for the Captain to hear. "Rest assured there will be an army of lawyers on the dock in London when you arrive."

"Be that as it may," says the Captain, "but we are wasting this fine breeze. Get her up here and let us be gone. Is the Bo'sun back aboard? Good."

"Good-bye, lads," I say to the rest of my crew. "Do not worry about me. I have a way of getting through things like this."

They stand in a row, Jim Tanner furiously wiping his nose that's still oozing blood from the fight, John Thomas and Smasher nursing bloody knuckles, and young Daniel glaring at my captors with pure hatred in his crying eyes.

"Good-bye, Missy."

I turn my own tear-streaked face from them and climb up onto the deck of the man-of-war.

"Cast off those lines. Get back aboard, the rest of you!" roars the Captain. "Goddammit, could you be any slower? Mr. Fleming, you have the con! Get us on our way! Christ, at this rate we'll never round Margate!"

"Topmen aloft to make sail!" shouts the Lieutenant. "Throw off those lines! Move it!"

The deck explodes with activity—orders are shouted, men race aloft to drop the sails, gangs of sailors haul on the buntlines to raise the heavy canvas, all an ordered chaos that is very familiar, and true, very dear to me. How sad that I will be here as prisoner and not as seaman, on what will very probably prove to be my last voyage on this earth. Oh, well, I'm not dead yet.

I am, however, drawn up and forced to stand before the Captain. Bliffil appears beside me and grabs me by the arm. "Tears, is it?" he rasps in my ear. "From one such as you?" He flings me back to the Sergeant of Marines. "Let's get her below and into the brig! I will search her there!"

"Hold on, Mr. Bliffil," says the Captain. He has been looking up and examining the set of sail and now, seemingly satisfied with what he sees, brings his gaze once again on me. "You will
what
?"

"You saw with your own eyes, Sir, that she had a knife up her sleeve. See, here is where she keeps it," says Bliffil, grabbing my arm and pulling back my sleeve, exposing my forearm sheath. "I must search her at once for other weapons. For the safety of everyone aboard."

"She will be searched, Mr. Bliffil," says the Captain, "but not by you." He turns to an officer standing next to him and says, "Mr. Bennett, please send for Dr. Sebastian and have him meet us down in the brig."

Mr. Bennett, who seems to be a very senior Lieutenant and who is the First Mate, says, "Aye, Captain," and nods to a young midshipman who scurries away and down a hatch to no doubt fetch the ship's surgeon.

"All right," says the Captain with a final look at the sails, "let us go below and show this ... creature ... to its new quarters."

As I am led across the deck to the hatchway, I steal one last glance across the sea at the
Nancy B. Alsop,
my gallant little schooner, its sails tight and its Faber Shipping, Worldwide, banner snapping bravely in the breeze.

Oh, how happy I was not an hour ago!

Chapter 2

We are below and I am in the brig, while the others stand outside. I note that the cage is constructed differently from the usual ones in which I've been jailed. This one has been built into the bow of the ship three levels down, such that it is a triangle, with two of its walls being the leaking hull of the ship, and the third made of thick wood with a barred door in its center. There are the usual amenities—a hard bench, a moldy blanket, a chamber pot, and that's it. The door has not yet been closed. There is a lantern hung by the hatchway, shedding its dim light on this dismal place. I seat myself on the bench and wait.

Bliffil has been going through my seabag, uttering an occasional
Aha!
The two Marines take their posts at either side of the cage door, and we are soon joined by the aforementioned Dr. Sebastian. He is a small, dark-haired, and rather sour-looking man of about thirty-five years, and he carries with him a black bag containing, I expect, medical instruments.

"You will examine this person, Doctor," says the Captain, "for proof of gender—I'm still not convinced we have not captured a wayward boy—distinguishing marks, state of health, and ... er ... cleanliness, and all that. When you are finished, bring her to my cabin with your report. Mr. Bliffil, if you are quite through, please leave."

"Sir, I must protest," sputters Bliffil.

"And, you, Sir, must do as you are told," says the Captain, with a cold edge to his voice, making it quite plain that he is not used to his orders being questioned. The Captain leaves, trailed by a still-sputtering and protesting Bliffil.

The Doctor turns to the Marines. "This would be better done in my surgery, as the light here is too dim. The orlop is one deck up. Bring her there." He turns and leaves.

The Sergeant reaches in and pulls me to the hatchway. "Don't try nothin', you."

I don't try nothin', knowing it would avail me little. I meekly follow the Marine up the stairs to the next level and into another space.

It is the orlop, the surgery, and the Doctor was right—it is better lighted. There are a number of lamps on the walls, and he goes around turning them up. The place gets even brighter, the light glinting off the many surgical tools hung on pegs—saws and cleavers and sharp knives that I know are for the hacking off of destroyed limbs after a battle. There is also a microscope, next to which are specimens, pieces of something or other, and next to them some crude drawings of the same. There is also a large, flat operating table.

"Please remove your garments, Miss," requests the Doctor, taking off his jacket and hanging it on a hook. "And get up on the table. Sergeant, Corporal, you will both turn around and face the wall."

Tears of despair begin to pour out of my eyes, as I realize the true hopelessness of my situation. Grieving for my lost future, my lost dreams, my lost life, I begin to unbutton my vest.

It is some time later and I am again clothed, this time in my Lawson Peabody black dress that the Doctor has kindly allowed me to take from my seabag after we were done with the examination. I have also donned another of my wigs—probably the most sedate one and the one that most closely matched the color of my actual hair. A little powder here and there, my black mantilla draped around my bare shoulders, and I am ready to be paraded in front of the Captain.

"Should we bind her hands, Sir?" asks one of the Marines, after he has been allowed to turn his face from the wall.

"I don't think that will be necessary, Sergeant," answers the Doctor drily, "as she is rather small, and not very intimidating."

The Marine reddens and says, "Of course, Sir. Come along, Miss. Doctor, if you will."

The four of us troop up two more ladders and gain the upper deck. The sun is setting and I look across the sea for the
Nancy B,
but I do not see her.
Ah, well, it is better that I do not, I suppose, as she is part of my past and not part of whatever short life that might lie before me.

The Sergeant strides across the deck and addresses the Officer of the Deck. "Beg your pardon, Sir, but the Captain ordered that she be brought up to see him when she was ... presentable."

Not spread out on a table, you mean,
I snarl to myself.

Lieutenant Fleming comes down from the quarterdeck and knocks lightly on a door immediately beneath the upper deck. There is a murmur from within and Fleming says, "Sir, the girl."

More mumbles and grumbles and Mr. Fleming opens the door and Dr. Sebastian and I go in. The Marines stay outside and take positions to either side of the door.

The Captain is seated at his desk, looking through some documents. Bliffil stands next to him, and I suspect that he has supplied the Captain with those papers. I look about the cabin—its semicircle of windows facing aft, its rich woods and other appointments that so very much remind me of my own cabins on both the
Wolverine
and the
Emerald.
I heave a sigh for those lost days as I stand in front of the desk, the Lawson Peabody Look firmly in place—lips together, teeth apart, head held high as if balancing a book upon it, and eyes half hooded in a look of languid, disinterested disdain.

"So," says the Captain, continuing to peruse the sheets of paper without looking up. "Jacky Faber, Ship's Boy, HMS
Dolphin,
made Midshipman on same
Dolphin.
Discovered to be female and placed as student at the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls in Boston, expelled, reinstated. Involved in fire that burns down a good part of that same city. Member of crew of the whaler
Pequod.
Taken on HMS
Wolverine
as Midshipman by apparently insane commanding officer. Made Acting Lieutenant J. M. Faber, by same lunatic, and becomes Master and Commander of HMS
Wolverine
upon his death and performs in that capacity for fifteen days, and takes four prizes. Evades capture for misappropriation of Crown property, to wit: one of the four prize ships. Becomes Captain of the pirate
Emerald,
eventually sunk by aforementioned
Wolverine.
Captured and escapes yet again. And finally, involved in some mischief of late on the Mississippi River in America that caused great grief to several of our fine Intelligence Agents." The Captain picks up the papers and taps them into a neat order. "Quite a résumé. How do you plead?"

He looks up at me and is visibly shocked by my change of appearance.

"Guilty, Sir," says I, my nose in the air, "of all except the piracy charge. When I sailed on the
Emerald,
I carried a Letter of Marque from Lord Henry Dundas, First Lord of the Admiralty. That my own country saw fit to betray me and brand me a pirate, well, I can't say anything to that."

He looks me up and down and says nothing for a while. Then he barks out a short laugh. "Ha! Quite remarkable, I must say. No longer the Creole urchin, eh?"

Not Creole, but still an urchin, Sir.

"I do not deny my origins, Sir."

"Ahem. Well, then. Doctor, your report, please."

The surgeon, who has been calmly pouring himself a glass from the Captain's bottle of brandy, takes a sip and says, "No other weapons concealed on her person. In good health, cleanly muscled, and in excellent physical condition. About sixteen years old, as she herself maintains. Small tattoo of anchor on right iliac crest. Evidence of lower ribs having been onetime broken, making her waist appear uncommonly narrow. Scar under left eyebrow, which has caused the brow hair to grow out white. Several other scars scattered about, the two most notably being one high on the left thigh that she reports to be from a sword thrust taken while escaping from the slaver
Bloodhound,
and one on left buttock from a flying splinter received during an encounter with a prize on the privateer
Emerald.
No venereal disease or body lice, and, as a matter of fact"—and here he pauses to take another sip of the brandy before continuing—"she is
virginalis intacta,
if, after all that, you can believe it, Sir."

"
Ummm,
" mutters the Captain. "Even more remarkable."

My face flares up red upon hearing this account of the examination. I don't like people poking at me and my parts if I ain't the one what invited the poking in the first place. But, even so, I must admit the Doctor was kind. He was gentle and professional, even when gently nudging my knees apart.

"Well, then, ahem," says the Captain, "I hope you will be comfortable tonight, Miss. We will discuss the terms of your confinement tomorrow."

"Thank you, Captain..." and I let it hang.

"Oh, yes," he says, slightly flustered, and rising from his chair. "Forgive me. There never is an excuse for bad manners, is there? I am Captain Hannibal Hudson, Commander of HMS
Dauntless,
at your service, Miss."

I deliver my deepest curtsy, and as I rise from it I look up from under my eyelashes and I say, "Thank you for your courtesy, Captain Hudson. I trust I may place the safety of both my self and my virtue in your protection during this voyage?"