Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (7 page)

 

 

 

 

Plymouth is a very pleasant, well laid-out port, with many places of business, nautical or otherwise, arrayed along Water Street, which runs along the ends of the wharves and piers that jut out into the harbor. I think I shall like it here.

Sailing in, I had found a good tie-up for the
Star,
in a nest of similar small working boats bobbing alongside a floating dock, so didn't have to pay anything for the mooring, which is good. I am wearing my money belt, but in my haste to leave Boston, I didn't have time to properly stuff it with coin of the local realm, and I expect it to grow even thinner as I go along. Oh, well, I do have my pennywhistle, if it comes to that.

Pulling my seabag out of the cowling, I stuff my ordinary seaman's cap inside and take out my midshipman's hat and cram it on my head, figuring I'll get a bit more respect than if sporting the cap of a common swab. My oilskins still cover the rest of me, and yes, it's still drizzling. So off I go in search of dry lodging and, ultimately, some worthy employment as a cover for my being here in this town as a single female.

Seabag on shoulder, I trudge up First Street, which takes its origin from Water Street and leads into the center of the town, glad to see up ahead the sign for the Tail and Spout Inn
.
It displays a blowing white whale against a blue background and words below that, promising food, drink, and lodging. Before I enter, I reach down and pick up a little mud with my forefinger and run it across the bridge of my nose, to show that I've run into some hard traveling on the way here, and for sure, I have seen that. Then I adjust my middy cap and go in.

It is a cheerful, welcoming place with maybe ten small tables and one big one running down the center, with a large fireplace at the end—unlit because it is the end of June and quite warm. A bar runs along the other end of the room, and a woman sure to be the landlady is doling out foaming tankards of suds to a chubby and cheerful serving girl, who carries them to the tables. There are quite a few customers in the place, too—a table with four seamen grouped around, and another with what look to be merchant officers.
Hmmm
—I notice some swarthy tattooed fellows off in a corner, their harpoons leaning against the wall. Most of the men are smoking their vile pipes, and there is a thick layer of smoke hovering next to the ceiling. Another table of four NewEngland seamen is lustily singing “The Black Ball Line.” You can tell they're Yankee sailors, 'cause their hair is cut short behind, unlike the Brits and Irish, who wear their hair long, in pigtails, like mine. Their rendition of the fine old song is met with approval from those within, as there are cheers and whistles when they end. I wish I could join in, but alas, I cannot, for I must lie low.

Well, the place seems right cozy to me, so I march my sodden self up to the landlady and say in my deepest voice, “I'd like a room for the night, Missus. A single, if you please.”

“A single it is, lad, and ain't you a fine-lookin' young sailor boy,” she says, reaching back for one of the keys that hang on the wall behind her. “A half dollar a night, in advance.”

These inns not only rent out single and double rooms, to those what can afford 'em, but also mere bed space—like in three or four blokes to a mattress—and there's no way I want that big Samoan harpooner over there throwing his heavy leg over me in the middle of the night. He must be three hundred pounds if he's an ounce.

I dig my finger under my oilskin and into my money belt and pull out the required coin, and she delivers the key. “Top o' stairs, first door to the right, number seven.”

I shoulder my seabag and head up.

Number 7 is indeed a single—and not much more than that—a narrow bed and a washstand and room enough only to stand and turn around. But it sure looks like home to this weary traveler. The door opens inward, so I plant my wedges, peel off my 'skins and the rest of my damp sailor togs, and fall across the bed for a delicious afternoon nap . . .
Oh, yes . . .

 

Later, I arise refreshed, then wash up and put on my midshipman's uniform—blue jacket, white trousers—my sword Esprit, snug in her harness, my cap back on head. “There,” I pronounce, looking at myself in the washstand mirror, every inch a proud midshipman in His Majesty's Service. It's time to head back downstairs in search of some food, drink, and maybe some information.

On my way to an open table, I ask of the landlady, “Pardon, Missus, but where might I buy a newspaper?”

She looks me over yet again. “Royal Navy, eh? If'n I'd known that, I'd have charged you double for the room.”

Startled, I stammer, “I-I'm sorry to cause you distress, Mum, but . . .”

She barks out a short laugh. “Nay, Old Gert's just foolin'. All sailors are welcome at the Whale. When the cruel water closes over a poor seaman's head for the last time, it don't matter what he is—Yankee, Blackamoor, Hottentot, or Royal Navy—it's all the same hard swallow. Sit yerself down, lad, and Bessie'll see to yer needs . . . and here's a paper some bloke left. It'll save you yer nickel.”

Gratefully, I take up the rolled paper and head for my table. The aforementioned Bessie appears by my side and soon a mug of cool ale is in my fist. Careful not to look too ladylike by crossing my ankles demurely, I affect a male posture by crossing my legs, left foot resting on right knee, then lean back and open the paper.

I turn to the Help Wanted section and avidly read.

Hmmm
 . . . Plenty of ads for sailors—
can't do that, not now, too obvious.
Whalers, too—
but that's a nasty business, plus I'd be gone too long
—and for chambermaids . . . 
well, if nothing else turns up, maybe.
The ropewalk, all quarter-mile of it, is hiring, but that's rougher work than I want right now . . . 
Ha! Here's just the thing! I'll do it, by God, first thing in the morning, and . . .

And dark shapes suddenly appear by my side. I look up to see two Royal Navy lieutenants in full rig—navy blue jackets with gold buttons and lace trim, blue trousers with sword belts strapped on, and fore-and-aft cocked hats.
Uh-oh . . .

I shoot to my feet, case my eyes, and hit a brace. I stand there rigid with fear, my mind racing . . . 
What the hell now? Damn!

But I am somewhat relieved to feel a friendly hand on my shoulder as one of them says, “Nay, lad, let us not stand on ceremony here on terra firma. It is good to find a fellow member of our service here in goddamn Yankeeland.” They both sit down, one to either side of me.

Even in my confusion, I know they are glad there are no United States naval officers in the room, because of the tensions building between our countries. Every officer wears a sword, even me, and one wrong word and . . .

“I am Lieutenant Mitchell,” the older and obviously more senior of the two says, “and this is Mr. Tull, both of HMS
Endymion,
First and Third Officers. Tell us your name, boy, and sit down and let us enjoy what this inn has to offer. We'll all be back at sea soon enough.”

Who shall I be?
My mind searches about for a plausible lie.
Ah! Yes! He's got to be half a world away!

“M-Midshipman Tom Wheeler,” I stammer, signaling for Bessie to bring these worrisome gents some drink. She winks and nods. “If it pleases you, Sir.”

“It pleases me well enough, Mr. Wheeler,” says the older man. And as the tankards are placed on the table, he says, “And that pleases me even more. Thank you, lad . . .”

Long drafts are drunk, followed by heartfelt
ahhhhh
s, and then we fall into that old game that long-parted sailors have played since ancient mariners plowed the wine-dark Adriatic Sea . . . 
Alexandrus! Apollo be praised! A glass of grappa with you! I haven't seen your dried-up carcass since the Siege of Syracuse! Vale Agrippa! Good to see you, and aye, what a mess that was—damned Greeks with their tricks! There I was, pulling my oar on the
Helena,
and the sail of our galley suddenly goes up in flame! Never again, I swear! Didn't pay me, neither, curse 'em all to Hades! Demetrius? No, ain't seen 'im since Troy . . . Hey, check out the amphorae on Athena over there . . . Athena, darling! Another round!

“So, young Mr. Wheeler, tell us where last you have shipped and whom you have met,” says Lieutenant Tull, signaling for another round.

“Well, Sir,” I say, having had a bit of time to come up with a plausible lie, “I was lately billeted on the
Shannon,
but I was sent off by the Captain with a last-minute message to a person here in Plymouth—”

“Probably a letter to his American mistress,” mutters Mr. Mitchell.

“
—
and so missed her departure from Boston. I am to rejoin the ship in London, but since I knew there were no Royal Navy ships currently in Boston, I figured I'd take a coach to New York to see if I can catch a ride on one of our ships moored there, and so back to England.”

“Put your mind at rest, Midshipman Wheeler,” says Mr. Mitchell, “for you shall travel with us back to New York by coach in the morning. I am sure our captain, Simms, will offer you a berth for the return journey. After all, what's one squeaker, more or less. You certainly don't look like you eat much.”

“No, Sir, I do not, and I thank you for your kind offer,” I reply, never for a second intending to be on that coach in the morning.

Mr. Tull returns to the who-do-you-know game. “The
Shannon,
eh? Isn't Seth Parsons on her?”

“Yessir, he's First Officer. And do you know of a Lieutenant James Fletcher? He's Second,” I venture.

Both consider, but it's Mr. Mitchell who says, “Fletcher, eh? Yes. I haven't met him in person, but I've heard he's a strong, silent type—knows his business as a sailor and a good man to have at your back in a fight. How about . . .”

It goes on and on, but it's no wonder, as there are not that many officers compared to the number of sailors, so, of course, we run into each other sometimes in the performance of our duties.

“Perhaps you have heard of a Mr. Joseph Jared, sailing master on HMS
Dolphin
? I served with him on the
Wolverine,
at Trafalgar.”

“Ha!” cries Tull. “Joseph Jared! A fine man, indeed! A thoroughgoing seaman! Top notch! He is now a full lieutenant and Second Officer on our very ship. He will be delighted to see you when we return to the
Endymion,
I am sure.”

I also am quite sure of that
—
but sorry, Joseph, it ain't gonna happen . . .

 

Later, after all the toasts toasted, drinks drunk, a fine meal eaten, and many sea stories told, I beg to be excused, with a promise to meet in the morning, and I retire, a bit unsteadily, to my chamber.

After I have made my ablutions, said my prayers, and climbed into bed, I let my mind wander and gleefully imagine the conversation that will surely happen in the officers' mess of HMS
Endymion
when Lieutenants Mitchell and Tull return . . .

“Midshipman Thomas Wheeler, you say?” asks Joseph Jared. “Of the
Wolverine
?”

“Why, yes, Joseph, he was quite clear on that,” answers Lieutenant Mitchell, a bit nonplussed. “Strange that he did not show up this morning when we all boarded the coach.”

“Odd, indeed,” says Jared, his cocky grin beginning to spread across his face. “Perhaps, Jonathan, if you would describe this creature to me?”

“Well, he was very small but neat and thin of face. He had blue powder spray next to his right eye. I believe I spied a curious tattoo on his neck, under his pigtail, when it swung to the side. A dragon, I think. Why do you ask?”

Jared looks at his fellow officers with a widening smile.

“Because, gentlemen, I had the pleasure of seeing my former shipmate Midshipman Tom Wheeler not one month ago onboard HMS
Regulus
.”

“B-but what . . . ?” stammers Lieutenant Tull. “But he said . . .”

“
Have you gentlemen checked your purses since that little encounter?” asks Jared, with a questioning eyebrow raised.

Lieutenant Mitchell looks confused. “No, there was nothing untoward in that respect. However, we did play at cards, and the young lad, for all his fumbling inexperience, did come out the winner in the end.”

“And he was most gracious about it—bought us our dinner, in fact,” adds Tull.

“As well she should—for it was with your own money she bought it!”

“‘She'?” they both mutter, aghast.

“The real Midshipman Wheeler is half a world away from here,” says Jared, collapsing into helpless laughter. “Do you realize who it was you broke bread with? Ha! You're lucky you still have a penny in your pocket!”

“You don't mean . . . ?”

“Yes, I do, and by God, I would have gladly exchanged the contents of my own purse to have been in your place, right next to Puss in Boots herself!”

I think it would have gone something like that.
And I wish you the joy in the telling of it, Joseph. So, good night, you merry rogue
 . . .

And good night, Jaimy, and Godspeed.

The next morning, I pop up bright and early. I know the coach-and-four headed to New York and points south leaves at nine, so I've got to be out of here by eight if I don't want to continue to enjoy the company of Lieutenants Mitchell and Tull, well-meaning gents though they might be.

After washing the sleep out of my eyes and doing the necessaries, I don my Lawson Peabody School attire—long white drawers with flounces, black stockings, white chemise top, black silk dress over all that, with black pumps on feet.