Read Online Under the Jolly Roger: Being an Account of the Further Nautical Adventures of Jacky Faber by L. A. Meyer - Free Book Online
Authors: L. A. Meyer
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"So that makes me Senior Midshipman, then," I says, cutting him off cruelly. "So get me a blanket and be quick about it, boy. And where's my bunk?"
Sorry, lad, but I've got to establish myself right off.
He is startled by my rudeness, but he stifles his anger and says, "Here." He goes over and opens a door to a closet-sized room, and he stands back and I go in and look about. A bed, with drawers underneath. A dry sink and basin. Some hooks on the wall. That's it, but I've seen worse, and tired as I am, it looks like home to me.
A knock on the side of the cabin and a hand holds out a blanket to me. I take it, close the door behind me, and strip off my poor silks. I hang them on the hooks in hopes they'll dry in some sort of shape. I towel off with the blanket and rub myself briskly to take out some of the cold. After a little while my skin starts to pink up and I stop shivering so violently.
Then I wrap the blanket about me and step back out into the midshipmen's berth. There is a table and some chairs and an open hatch overhead letting in the air. At least we shan't suffocate on days when it ain't raining.
"What have you got for me to wear?" I say, sitting down at the table. I know I must present a comely sight, my hair plastered to my head, made thick with the salt water, and my nose red and running, my feet all veiny and blue. "Is there any hot tea?" Then I sneeze a fine spray of mist all over the table.
The older boy jerks his head at the littlest boy, who ducks his head and scurries out. The rest of them stare at me. Aside from the older boy, there are two who seem to be of the same age, that being about twelve.
"I'll need drawers, a shirt, trousers, and a jacket. And stockings. My boots will serve me for shoes. A cap, if one can be found," I say. "And the loan of a comb and some ribbon to tie back my hair."
The younger ones scurry into their cubbyholes and come out with the drawers, shirt, pants, stockings, and other items. The older boy goes into his room and comes out with a black midshipman's jacket. "I have grown out of it, and I will take great pleasure if you will accept it. We will have to share the comb."
Hmmm. Courtly. Has manners. Here's a likely one, maybe.
"And what is your name, Sir?" I ask.
He bows and says, "Robin. Robin Raeburne, at your service, Miss, and I am sorry for your recent troubles." He has dark, curly, reddish brown hair, and a fine straight nose, good chin, with a high, clear, and intelligent forehead. He's probably a Scot with that name and that hair.
I give a slight dip by way of an answer to his bow and say, "Don't be. I brought it on myself, as usual."
The small boy comes back in, bearing a mug of steaming tea. He seems to be all of eight years old, his black midshipman's jacket hanging rather loosely on him. Comically loose. He hands the cup to me with both hands, slightly shaking so that some of the tea sloshes out over his hands.
I take the cup and gratefully bring it to my lips. "Ahhh." I breathe as the hot liquid goes down my throat, warming me. "And you, young sir. What is your name?" He is short, round in the face, and blond. His ice blue eyes are open in unabashed wonder.
"Georgie Piggott, Miss," he pipes. "And are you really the girl in the book?"
Oh, Lord.
I sigh and say that I suppose I am, but you shouldn't believe everything you read. The other two squeakers are looking at me in wonder, too. I raise my eyebrows in question at them and one says, "Ned Barrows, Mum," and the other says, "Tom Wheeler."
Ned is a dark-haired boy, with thick curls close to his head, and an open faceâcheerful, honest, and slightly pug-nosed. Tom is blondish, with his hair hanging to his shoulders, and he has blue eyes, and a foxy, inquisitive face. Ned is sturdy, while Tom is slight. Again, I place them both at the age of twelve and it is plain that they are close friends.
"Fine. What's for dinner?"
Dinner turns out to be simple seamen's rationsâsalt
"So that makes me Senior Midshipman, then," I says, cutting him off cruelly. "So get me a blanket and be quick about it, boy. And where's my bunk?"
Sorry, lad, but I've got to establish myself right off.
He is startled by my rudeness, but he stifles his anger and says, "Here." He goes over and opens a door to a closet-sized room, and he stands back and I go in and look about. A bed, with drawers underneath. A dry sink and basin. Some hooks on the wall. That's it, but I've seen worse, and tired as I am, it looks like home to me.
A knock on the side of the cabin and a hand holds out a blanket to me. I take it, close the door behind me, and strip off my poor silks. I hang them on the hooks in hopes they'll dry in some sort of shape. I towel off with the blanket and rub myself briskly to take out some of the cold. After a little while my skin starts to pink up and I stop shivering so violently.
Then I wrap the blanket about me and step back out into the midshipmen's berth. There is a table and some chairs and an open hatch overhead letting in the air. At least we shan't suffocate on days when it ain't raining.
"What have you got for me to wear?" I say, sitting down at the table. I know I must present a comely sight, my hair plastered to my head, made thick with the salt water, and my nose red and running, my feet all veiny and blue. "Is there any hot tea?" Then I sneeze a fine spray of mist all over the table.
The older boy jerks his head at the littlest boy, who ducks his head and scurries out. The rest of them stare at me. Aside from the older boy, there are two who seem to be of the same age, that being about twelve.
"I'll need drawers, a shirt, trousers, and a jacket. And stockings. My boots will serve me for shoes. A cap, if one can be found," I say. "And the loan of a comb and some ribbon to tie back my hair."
The younger ones scurry into their cubbyholes and come out with the drawers, shirt, pants, stockings, and other items. The older boy goes into his room and comes out with a black midshipman's jacket. "I have grown out of it, and I will take great pleasure if you will accept it. We will have to share the comb."
Hmmm. Courtly. Has manners. Here's a likely one, maybe.
"And what is your name, Sir?" I ask.
He bows and says, "Robin. Robin Raeburne, at your service, Miss, and I am sorry for your recent troubles." He has dark, curly, reddish brown hair, and a fine straight nose, good chin, with a high, clear, and intelligent forehead. He's probably a Scot with that name and that hair.
I give a slight dip by way of an answer to his bow and say, "Don't be. I brought it on myself, as usual."
The small boy comes back in, bearing a mug of steaming tea. He seems to be all of eight years old, his black midshipman's jacket hanging rather loosely on him. Comically loose. He hands the cup to me with both hands, slightly shaking so that some of the tea sloshes out over his hands.
I take the cup and gratefully bring it to my lips. "Ahhh." I breathe as the hot liquid goes down my throat, warming me. "And you, young sir. What is your name?" He is short, round in the face, and blond. His ice blue eyes are open in unabashed wonder.
"Georgie Piggott, Miss," he pipes. "And are you really the girl in the book?"
Oh, Lord.
I sigh and say that I suppose I am, but you shouldn't believe everything you read. The other two squeakers are looking at me in wonder, too. I raise my eyebrows in question at them and one says, "Ned Barrows, Mum," and the other says, "Tom Wheeler."
Ned is a dark-haired boy, with thick curls close to his head, and an open faceâcheerful, honest, and slightly pug-nosed. Tom is blondish, with his hair hanging to his shoulders, and he has blue eyes, and a foxy, inquisitive face. Ned is sturdy, while Tom is slight. Again, I place them both at the age of twelve and it is plain that they are close friends.
"Fine. What's for dinner?"
Dinner turns out to be simple seamen's rationsâsalt
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