My Bonny Light Horseman (8 page)

"Today we start with the Fringillidae
Geospiza fortis,
"announces the Doctor by way of greeting. He places in front of me a dried-out and very dead little bird and explains, "It's a medium ground finch that I collected in the Galápagos."

I sigh and settle onto my stool, then pick up my pencil.

When I finish inking my drawing of the bird, he asks me to render a particularly disgusting bit of gut that has been pickled in some sort of strong-smelling liquid. After I've been bending over it for a time, concentrating on my drawing, I find my head spinning and I feel like I'm going to faint. Dr. Sebastian, noticing that his precious specimen might be ruined by my face descending onto the smelly thing, orders a halt, and I'm given a break to go get some fresh air.

"We will resume our work after lunch," he says, curtly, and takes off his lab coat. I am dismissed.

When I get out into the air, my head clears so I walk to the rail to look out across the sea. It is another fine, soaring day, and with the breeze behind her, the
Dauntless
tears right along.

"Careful, Miss. Not too close," warns my Marine.

"Oh, don't you worry, Patrick," says I, sucking in a deep chestful of the good salt air. "I'm not going to jump."
Not yet, anyway.

I have discovered that there are four guards who have been assigned the Jacky Watch rotation: Privates Morris, Kent, Marsten, and this Patrick Keene. He's a pleasant lad from County Cork. There are, of course, many sailors about the deck, and some of them look like they'd like to have a word with the infamous Jacky Faber, but a growl and a warning look from Private Keene wards them off. I guess he has his orders.

I leave the rail to go grasp the first rung on the ratlines that lead up to the foretop.

"I'm going up on that little platform there—that way none of the sailors will bother me, and you won't have to keep 'em off. See? And I'll play you a bit of a tune to cheer you during your watch."

"But—"

Before he can do anything, I'm up the ratlines and heading for the foretop. There is a moment, just before I reach it, that I consider going up through the lubber's hole because I'm wearing a dress, but I just can't do it. I'm too much the proud salty sailor for that. No, I go to the edge, do the flip over, and land on the foretop. If anyone got a peek at my drawers, well, good for them. I hope they enjoyed it.

I pop my head over the side of the foretop platform. "You won't get in any trouble, Patrick. See? I'm right here. I can't go anywhere."
Well, I could if I really wanted to, but...

He says nothing to that so I slide back to prop my shoulders against the foremast, then pull out my pennywhistle that I had up my sleeve and commence to play "The Glens of Killarney," which I know to be a favorite of the Irish boys, at least the ones I've encountered, anyway, and I've met quite a few. That goes well, the notes wafting away on the wind and not likely to gain the attention of the officers three hundred feet back on the quarterdeck.

Then I play "Jackaroe" and then my own "The Ship's Boy's Lament," which I had made up back on the
Dolphin
after the death in battle of my mate Benjy.

As I'm doing it, I hear footfall behind me.
Who?
I look aft and see that Joseph Jared is still on watch, so it can't be him ...
what?

"Hullo, Jack," says my visitor, who has plainly dropped down from the top.

Davy?

"Davy! What are you doing here?" I ask, incredulous.

"I'm in the Royal Navy, remember?" he answers, settling next to me, his own back to the mast. "And this is a Royal Navy ship. I could well ask you the same question, 'cept I already know why you're here—you've got your scrawny butt in a lot of trouble yet again and it will prolly be up to me to save it."

I squirm around to throw my arms about him and hug him tight. "Oh, it is so good to see you, Davy!" I plant a kiss on his cheek. "Have you heard anything of the others?"

"Well, Willy's still on the
Temeraire,
rated Able, and lookin' to become a Bo'sun. Tink's in London, out of the Navy and leanin' on a crutch—he was banged up pretty bad at Trafalgar, but he's getting better. They're lettin' him sleep under the bar at the Bell and Boar in return for him sweepin' up nights. Don't know where Jaimy is. Thought he was off chasin' after you."

"Poor Tink, he always was the one of us to get himself hurt," I say, remembering that time when Tink had been wounded during a fight with the pirate LeFievre. "Jaimy's on the
Mercury,
escorting a convoy to the Orient. We're going to be married when he gets back to London."

I release Davy and lean back against the mast again. "Or at least we were," I say, heaving a sigh. "Till I got caught."

"Right, I saw those wanted posters. You've been a bad girl, I reckon. I thought about running you down and turning you in myself for that fat reward."

I give him a poke in the ribs. "Not quite as bad as they say."

"Well, you always said you wanted to be famous in legend and song and I guess you got that," he says. "So you think they're gonna hang you?"

"I believe that is one of the more festive events they have planned for me, yes." I reach over and take his hand and heave out yet another heavy sigh. "Isn't this just like the old days, Davy," I say to get off the subject of my imminent death. "When we were kids back on the
Dolphin,
us lyin' around the foretop, out of sight of anyone who might want to put us to work, talkin' and dreamin' and jokin' around."

He laughs and says, "Aye, those were good days, it can't be denied." I notice that his laugh is much deeper now. Truly he has grown into a man, fully six feet tall, and in a moment I find that true in more ways than just a lower voice and a manly frame.

I crane my head around and look him full in the face because I sense something off, something not quite right.

"Where's your Brotherhood earring, brother?" I ask, looking at his vacant left earlobe and regarding him with a stern look worthy, I believe, of Mistress Pimm. "Did you lose it? Give it to some slut? Gamble it away?"

He looks at me with a sly grin. "So where's yours, Miss High-and-Mighty Nob-Come-Lately?"

I tap my breastbone. "It's right here on a chain, next to my heart. I keep it there rather than in my ear because sometimes I need to be perceived as more demure than I actually might be."

"Well, Jack
-ass,
" he says with a slight leer, "
my
golden hoop now rests on the ring finger of the left hand of one Annie Jones, formerly Ann Byrnes, which person I think you might know."

What? Annie! How...?

"Right-o, Jack-o, you're lookin' at a married man. Happened a week and a half ago. When we got into Boston, I explained to Mr. Curtis, who's my division officer, the way things lay twixt Annie and me, and after he told the Captain, I was granted three days' liberty whilst the ship reprovisioned, so I went up to the school, swept her up in my arms, and plighted me troth, as it were. She accepted, bless her, but then, of course, I had to ask her old man. When I told him that I was as Catholic as the Pope, he gave his grudging consent, so the next day we was married. Then we spent two whole days of, without doubt, the finest and most pure and lusty honeymoons ever down at the Pig and Whistle. Everybody said it was a right shame that you had left on your little schooner not two days before, 'cause you surely would have wanted to be there, if only to scold me into being a good husband, as I suspect you're gonna do now."

"You be good to her, you," warn I, poking my finger in his chest. "She is one of my dearest friends on this earth and if you..." My eyes well up at the thought of missing that wedding.
Oh, everybody must have been there but me ... Bet-sey and Ephraim, Sylvie and Henry, Ezra and Amy, oh...

"Don't you worry about her and me, Jacky. I drew out what pay I had on the books and left it with her. She's fixed all right till this war is over and I can get back. Now, let's talk about you. I know you for a conniving, devious, and cunning sort, so I know you've got a little somethin' cooked up to keep you from dancin' the Newgate jig. Am I right?"

Down below we hear eight bells being rung, signaling that it is noon and the watch will change.

"Well, I have been working on something, but I'll fill you in later," I say, squeezing his hand ever harder. "Oh, Davy, it is such a comfort to have you here, I—"

There is the thump of another pair of boots on the fore-top, and I look up to see that we have been joined by Joseph Jared. It is plain that he has just gotten off watch, and it is equally plain that he is not at all pleased at what he has found here. In talking with Davy I had, without thinking, reverted to my old childish foretop posture of drawn-up knees with forearms between legs, and was not presenting a very ladylike picture.

"Well, this is awful damn cozy. What the hell are you doing here, Jones?" he demands.

I let go of his hand as Davy gets to his feet and puts his right knuckle to his brow, his face expressionless. "I was visiting an old mate, Sir," he says. I, too, get to my feet.

"Joseph," I cry, "this is none other than David Jones, my brother from the
Dolphin,
from when we were ship's boys together!"

"I know who he is, and he don't look much like a boy to me," says Jared, his voice cold. "Get yourself gone, Jones."

"Aye, Sir," says Davy. He grabs a line and goes to haul himself up into the high rigging. I catch his eye and wink, tapping my clenched fist on my right hipbone, over my tattoo, to show him I know how things stand and that the Dread Brotherhood of the
Dolphin
still exists, at least for me. Before he goes up, he does the same, showing that the same goes for him, too.
Oh, it is so good to have another friend aboard!

"Can't leave Puss-in-Boots for a moment, can we, before our little Pussycat's snugged up with another Tom," says Jared, who had not missed that last exchange of signals.

I hit a brace. "That's not worthy of you, Joseph, and you know it," says I, suddenly angry. "He was a good friend of mine when I was a child, and he is a good friend now. I do not abandon my friends." I go to the edge of the foretop. "I believe it's time we went down for lunch."

"Ah, nobody owns Jacky Faber, is that right?" He hooks his arm around my waist.

"That is right, Mr. Jared, and don't you forget it. Nobody but me." I spin out of his grip and launch myself over the side of the foretop, grab the backstay, and go down, hand over hand.

"Please don't do that again, Miss," says Private Keene, visibly sweating under his high leather collar, plainly relieved to see me hit the main deck and to have me once more in his direct custody.

"Oh, don't worry, Patrick. I'd cover for you, and I'll be good now, I promise," says I, taking his arm. "You may lead me down to the Gun Deck."

I am escorted through the throng of officers gathering for their midday meal and put into my room. I receive my lunch and I eat it. Before I am taken back to work in the Doctor's lab, I search through my seabag and pull out an ivory disk, the kind I use for making my miniature portraits and slip it into my vest.

When I get to the lab, the Doctor is not yet there, so I take a piece of paper and begin work on the frontispiece for his folio. I've decided the nine-inch-by-twelve-inch size will be best for this thing, since that is the size of paper that seems most available here. I shall have to ask Davy to see if the Sailmaker can make us a leather folder to protect the drawings. I look about at the paintings I've done so far that have been tacked to the wall and that plainly won't do. The Doctor may have a keen scientific mind, but he certainly has no notion of order—nor any sense whatsoever of how to advance oneself in the world of Academia and Publishing. Or how to make any money from it all. I will show him.

One thing about my art—while the quality of the work I have done must be judged by others, there is one thing I know—I am fast. Having painted many pictures of fidgety children, impatient men, and flighty ladies, to say nothing of being in houses of mourning to paint funeral portraits, I have learned to be fast and accurate.

The Doctor comes back into the lab, so I slide the frontispiece out of the way, without him seeing it. I finish off the drawing of the vile gut I had been working on before, and then ink in the words the Doctor wants put under it, describing what the thing does and what poor thing it came out of, and suchlike. I now appreciate Miss Prosser's Penmanship classes back at the Lawson Peabody.

That done, I am given a butterfly, a dead one stuck on a pin.

"Ah," I say, looking at the design on its wings. "That is quite beautiful. This will be a joy to do."

"I am glad you think so," says the Doctor, "as we have many of them to do. The Lepidoptera are one of my special interests."

I turn to my work, while the Doctor turns back to his microscope, his sharp face in profile. I sketch in the shape of the butterfly's wings, then put down a wash of yellow water-color. As I wait for that to dry so that I can paint the colorful details over it without blurring, I slip out the little disk from my vest and begin on the Doctor's portrait.

Using the pencil, I draw the outline of his face. He is sunk in his work and is completely oblivious to what I am doing. It will not be hard to get a good resemblance, I'm thinking, as he has a prominent nose with a slight hook at the bridge, thin lips, deep-set eyes, thick brows ...
yes, Mr. Peet, I will keep the overall composition of the piece in mind from the start...
When you are an artist, you carry the instructions and admonitions of everyone you ever studied under right with you when you are working. It's like they're looking over your shoulder and going
tsk, tsk!
and shaking their heads sadly if you mess up. Mr. Peet at the Lawson Peabody was the one who started me on this path, and I thank him for it.

Back to the butterfly. Black now for those spots ... oops, not dark enough.
There! Got it!
Let that dry and now back to the portrait of Dr. Sebastian.