In the Belly of the Bloodhound by L. A. Meyer
When we were up there, sometimes the Shankies would try to get up there, too, and aim to catch us and throw us over, but they were clumsy, while we were quick. Once, a bunch of 'em was chasin' us over a rooftop on Saint Andrew Street and our gang all leaped over to a house on Carter Street, that bein' a jump of only six feet between and hardly worth mentioning 'cept that the drop between was a sheer eight stories. Hughie scooped up little Polly when it come to the jump, like he always did, and so we all got across safe ...
"Right, Hughie, you was big, but you was nimble, yes you was..."
Anyway, one of the Shankies, Fast Eddie was his name, thought he could be a hero to his chums and follow us over, but it turned out he didn't quite have the spring in his legs for it, and so he ended up playing a starring role in the renowned anatomist Dr. Richard Graves's presentation to some Royal Academy. I heard that one of his legs was cut off from the rest of his corpse and suspended on this rig while the good doctor would send an electrical charge through it, making the muscles jerk—galvanization, I think the term was, proving something or other...
"er ... yes, Dorothea, you can explain it to us during your lecture tomorrow..."
And though I didn't have much use for Fast Eddie, ending up on an anatomist's slab was a fate that many of us were doomed for and so we could take no joy in his sad end.
With our rocks, we were able to do much damage on those walking below. We did not have to throw them, no—just lean over the edge of a rooftop, with one of your mates holding on to your shift so you didn't tumble over to your death, to drop the rock at the proper time, trying to figure the distance traveled by your target before the rock you held would meet him in midstep. It was a very satisfying thing to do. Soon the Shankies were afraid to walk the streets, at least in the daytime, but male pride would not let them call a truce, no. Something else would have to give, and finally, it did.
Once, we were peering over the edge of a house on Old Bailey, ready to drop some stones on any Shankies who might amble past, and we see three of them running up the street. One of 'em's got what looks like a lady's purse in his fist, and there's whistles sounding behind them. They turn right and head into the alley next to us, not knowin' it's a blind alley with a high fence at the other end. They stop in horror to watch the two policemen come poundin' in after 'em. It's the noose for them for sure.
"Hit 'em," says Charlie, wingin' a stone, and we pick up ours and are about to wing them, but he says, "The coppers, not the Shanks!"
We wonder at the wisdom of that, but we do it.
The police, amazed at the hail of missiles from above, and having no wish to be brained over the apprehension of a couple of petty thieves, retreat. The Shankies climb over the fence to safety, but before they go, Charlie stands up, so they can see him, and says, "You owe us."
And they do. The truce is negotiated and we move back to the kip. With only one dead and a mere dozen wounded, we all counted it a decent end to a minor war.
The Rooster Charlie Gang was a peaceable bunch, mostly—content to work our own little patch of the city and take what came our way. Toby Oyster's crew had the turf to the west of us, on Tudor, but we was always all right with them—even joined up and shared our turf sometimes when times was good, like when the big fairs came to town—and way to the north was Fagin's crew of pickpockets, but Charlie was tight with the Dodger, Fagin's head boy, so we got along. No, it was Pigger's crew that was the problem, them havin' a prime piece of turf but always greedy for more.
So we're sittin' there in our kip that day, eyein' the two pasties we had stole, our mouths waterin' up and hopin' the other two get back soon so's we can divide 'em up and eat 'em, when Judy comes runnin' in, shoutin', "Pigger O'Toole's stole our Polly!"
I take an invisible bow down there on the dark Stage and say, "I'll continue this little tale tomorrow night. Be sure to get your tickets. The good seats are going fast."
There is the sound of laughter and girls turning over and settling in to sleep. I give Hughie an affectionate ruffle of his hair, and he says, "I like the story, Mary," and I go up and settle between my mates, where I will sleep until two bells into the midwatch. I will be awakened then to take both Dolley and Katy into the storeroom to be taught how to open the outer door, for they will be the first ones through when the time comes.
But I am too keyed up to sleep right off after the performance, so I put my nose in the nape of Annie's neck and throw my arm around her waist and feel her comforting hand on the back of mine, and while I wait for blessed sleep to come claim me, I think on things...
Y'know, Jaimy, as I lie here in the dark of the Hold, it occurs to me that I might be able to take this ship—I mean with the Dianas and the powder and the crew all divided and ready to jump out of their skins—but still, no ... I only know a few of the crew—the rest of them stay well away from us as ordered. And from what I've seen of them, they are a hard-bitten bunch—not like poor stupid Mick and Keefe—no, they are thugs used to cruelty, to pushing poor terrified people down dark passageways to stuff them into cramped holds, to chain them neck-and-foot to bulkheads and let them never see light nor day nor any human kindness for weeks and weeks on end. No, there's forty of them and thirty-some of us, so we've got to go with the original plan, I know that.
Plus, y'know, even if we took the ship and I got control of it, I could never love it like I loved my Emerald ... or the Dolphin ... and even the Wolverine. Call it wrong, of me, unchristian of me, even, but deep down inside I believe that things, things that ain't living, can still pick up some of the evil that's been done by people on them, or near them, or by them, or ... I don't know what I mean, really ... It's like a tree that's been used for a gallows to strangle the life out of some poor sod, or a lonely grave where some demented lover has slain his poor lovin' sweetheart and buried her poor remains ... or a slaver that has been the witness of countless deaths, horrible agonies, unspeakable cruelties, cruelties one can scarcely speak without such revulsion that ... No, I could never love this ship, as it has become a vile thing, a thing that I think even hates itself. In the creak of the timbers, in the clash of the chains, I hear the moaning, and I would always hear the moaning...
Anyway, I think of you always and of that rose-covered cottage by the sea ... But I don't know if you're gonna be able to keep me stuffed down in it. You know how I am, Jaimy, but also know that I am yours forever.
Chapter 42
"Hooks down."
I bounce off the Balcony to head down to do my duty, but I don't have to do it this time. I find my modesty is safe for today, for Mick puts his head over the edge and shakes it and gives me a look. Which is good, 'cause 'bout the only thing I'm still covering up is my tattoo. I take my fingers off my waistband and attend to the hooks. In a minute I see Mick's reason for caution—Dunphy's scowling face also pops up over the edge of the top hatch and looks about for any mischief. I perform the task at hand like a proper seaman and signal for the first tub to go up. It comes back rinsed, and then I hook up the clean-water tub.
While I ain't stripping today, Mick and Keefe, and even Dunphy, do get a bit of a treat. We have Clarissa set up on the edge of the Stage, once again, with one leg crossed over the other. Pretending she doesn't know she's being watched, she takes her right hand and drops the left sleeve of her chemise, and with a wet rag she wipes her shoulder, and then she lifts her chin and very slowly cleans her neck. Now she shrugs down the other sleeve and very, very slowly runs the rag back and forth, back and forth, from shoulder to shoul- der across the now bare top of her chest. Then she pulls the sleeves back up, rises, and undulates out of sight.
"Oh, my...," Mick breathes.
"Back to work, the both of yiz," says Dunphy. I notice that he didn't say that till Clarissa's little show was over, though.
"Tubs down, ladies," I sing out. "Let's get 'em back in the privy."
They swarm down and we get the job done. Several of the girls reach for their hanging washcloths to avail themselves of t
With that, I pull my sleeve up over my shoulder and stick my arm all the way into the clean-water tub and feel around with my hand.
"Yuck," says Clarissa. "Now it's contaminated"
I pay her no mind and keep swirling my hand around and ... Ha! I feel something slimy. I grab it and pull it out triumphantly for all to see—a foot-and-a-half piece of gray-green seaweed.
"And now I suppose you'll eat that awful thing, won't you, and disgust us further?" asks Clarissa.
"No, Clarissa, sweet sister of my soul," I say with satisfaction. "Not a treat for me, just another little something for the boys ... a little something from the Marie Celestine."
Later, after checking on the progress with the fuse and joining in on the dancing for a while, just to show 'em how it's really done, I go up and join Katy, up on starboard-side forward watch.
"Hello, Kate, what's happenin' out there?" I say by way of greeting. I sit down, lean back, and pat my belly in contentment. We had some fine, fine Bordeaux wine with our noon feast today, and it went down real easy. We're emptying four bottles a day now, enjoying their contents, and then filling them back up with water, recorking, and putting them back in the Powder Hole.
"Nothin' much, Jacky," she replies. "Just that the crew's gettin' real jumpy—lookin' around all scared and shifty-eyed. A little while ago one of 'em dropped a bucket behind another man and he 'bout jumped out of his skin. It almost come to a fight"
"Good," I say, and we fall silent, content to just sit together and watch the doin's on deck and the clouds scudding by.
After a while, though, she takes a deep breath and sits up straight and says, "Gotta tell you sumthin'...sumthin' about me, Jacky." She is grimly silent for a while, but I don't rush her.
"'Fore I come to Boston, I lived out on our little farm on the banks of the Allegheny, Armstrong County, way out on the frontier. 'Twas Father and Mama and me, and it was a hard life we had, but we was all right. We had enough to eat and there was some other homesteads about, so we had church on Sundays and sometimes there was barn raisings and play-parties for the kids. Father was strict, but he never laid a hand on me in anger. Mama was a churchwoman, through and through. We said a blessing before every meal and prayers at night. She loved God, but I know she loved me, too."
She stops to tuck a strand of her long, straight brown hair behind her ear. After looking out across the water for another few moments, she continues.
"Late last summer when the corn was ready to be brought in, my uncle came by to help with it. He didn't have no land and he wasn't married and so he worked as a hired hand on the farms thereabouts."
Another pause. I can tell this is hard for her.
"They was bringin' the last of it into the corn crib when it started to rain, but Father didn't want to stop till it was all done and so he got all wet and then caught a chill and then a fever. Three days later he was dead, and people come from the farms around to his funeral. Ever'one said it was Divine Providence that my uncle was there to watch out for Mama and me."
She does not look me in the eye once during this whole thing. Her expression does not change.
"Warn't three days after they put Father in the ground that Uncle come at me and he took me 'round the back of the shed and he threw me to the ground and did me. I cried out but he still did me. Yes, he did, and he did me every day after that."
I feel like I have been punched in the stomach.
"Your mother?" I ask, as soft as I can.
"She knew he was dirtying me, and it kilt her, it did. What with Father dyin' and what Uncle was doin' to me, she lost all her faith. She stopped believin' and then she stopped eatin'. She ate nothing, even refused to drink any water—not even a drop. Lord knows I tried to get her to eat or drink something. I begged her and begged her, but she wouldn't listen. She just stopped wanting to live and she died—just like that. It couldn't have been more than two weeks..."
"How old were you?"
"By my best reckonin' I was 'bout thirteen."
"What happened then?"
"Two days after Ma was put down and everybody left, he come at me again, but this time I was ready for him and I swung 'round and smashed him in the face, smashed him with a shovel as hard as I could hit him and then lit out. Left him there, on his hands and knees, groanin'."
"Then?"
"Took to the road. Kep' goin' on it. Eatin' berries and roots and plants I knew. Some rabbits I kilt. Just went east, 'cause I knew there was nothin' out to the west. Ended up in Boston. Went from big house to big house axin' for work. Didn't find none. Couldn't talk right for 'em. Looked at me funny and closed the doors. Hadn't et for a week when I went to the door of the school and axed for work. Think I passed out on the doorstep from bein' hungry. Peg pulled me in and gave me work."
If it had been anyone else, I would have gathered her to me for comfort and patted her back and said, "There, there," but not Kate. She is too solitary, too alone, and I fear she will ever be. There is a very long silence now and I let it hang in the air.
Another deep breath and...
"So you see, when we get where we're goin', they're gonna look me over and they're gonna find me wantin', 'cause I bled all over that day he first took me, and they're gonna sell me to one of those places ... I don't even know the names of 'em."
"They're called brothels ... whorehouses."
"Maybe. When the preacher come around, he used to point at us and say things like, 'Dens of Iniquity,' and 'Houses of Shame,' and we didn't know what he was talkin' about. And it all seemed so far away then. Don't seem so far away now, though."
More silence, which gives me time to take this whole story in ... Poor Katy, poor girl... Then she speaks again and this time it is with firmness and this time she turns to look me square in the eye.
"I'm tellin' you all this so's you'll know—I ain't goin' to one of those places to let them dirty on me. Ain't gonna let no man dirty on me ag'in. No, I've been handled rough enough. I'm gonna die in this place, and it's all right. I don't care. Truth be known, I've been as happy here as I been anywhere since Mama died."
Her eyes narrow and she goes on.
"And my girls have decided to do the same."
"Your girls?"
"You all call 'em the Dianas. Don't know why. Ain't none of 'em named Diana. It's Chrissy and Minnie and Hermione and Rose"
I sigh and explain. "It was back in the old countries—Greece and Rome and Egypt—the places where things got started up in the old days. They had men gods and boy gods and dwarf gods and such, and they even had girl gods, too, and one of 'em was Diana, Goddess of the Hunt, and she was Goddess of some other things, too, like chastity and the moon, but she was always pictured as havin' a bow and arrow with her. So that's why the girls call you the Dianas," I conclude. "It's a compliment, really."
"They had girl gods?"
"Yes, they did, Katy, and they were fierce ones, too. The Goddess Athena went around hurling lightning bolts and making life hell for men who failed to pay her due respect, and the Goddess Juno was making volcanos spew out, and changing those who had dared cross her into piggies, and the girl-god Ceres was making the crops grow each year but raining death and destruction down on any farmer who dared to be ungrateful, and so on and so forth. It went on like that till some guys got together and came up with the one-god thing—him being God, the Father, and male and all that—and things went downhill for girls ever after that, far as I can figure. It was always, 'Get in your dress, girl, your smock, your shift or your burnoose or your veil, but whatever it is, girl, put it on and shut the hell up,' is how I see it."
"Huh!"
"But back to modern times, Katy. Maybe it won't turn out that you have to die here. Maybe things will turn out better for you someday. Now here is the plan and your part in it. Tell me what you think."
I lay it out for her, and she considers it and nods.
"Well, if
"Yes, we will. And if it comes to that, I'll be with you all the way to the end. Maybe you don't know it, but I've got a tattoo right here on my hip. That will make me worthless to them awfully picky sultans, too. So I ain't goin', neither."
She again nods and something like a smile comes over her face and she lifts her clenched fist. I lift mine and we knock them together, and that's as close as you get to Katy Deere in this life, I suspect.
My talk with Katy reminds me of my duty, and the one duty in particular that I had not yet gotten to in the press of events, the one concerning that nightmare of nightmares I had not so long ago. I go back down to the fuse-makers and find Ruth and Dorothea hard at work. Ruth stitches and when she has a section done, Dorothea pours in the powder through a funnel she has made of paper rolled into a cone. The section is pinched off at six inches, Ruth sews it tight, and the next link is started. The fuse is laid out across the deck under the Stage, looking like a length of red linked sausages. There are now about fifty of them—halfway there. Good.
"Pray, Sisters, cease your labors on this for a short while and make two short, four-second fuses. When you are finished making them, take the top two bags of powder from the Powder Hole, puncture both bags and jam a fuse into each one, then sew the bag up tight around it. Then put the bags back into the Powder Hole." They look mystified. "It's important ... for emergencies, like. You'll see."
And they do it.
This night, when Connie does her reading, she announces that it will be John 13:1 to John 13:12. That's the bit where Jesus, at His Last Supper, gets up, takes off His robe, throws it over a chair, wraps a towel around His waist, and gets down and washes His disciples' feet, which I had always thought was pretty humble and downright nice of Him. I thought that, I did, but then, there was always the naggin' suspicion in my head that maybe some of the disciples' feet might have been sendin' something heavenward that wasn't all that sweet-smellin' and maybe Jesus thought He'd have to put an end to it if He was to enjoy His last dinner on this earth. And we all do like to enjoy our dinners, don't we?