Read Online Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber by L. A. Meyer - Free Book Online

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 . . .
    â€œI 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!
    â€œM-Midshipman Tom Wheeler,” I stammer, signaling for Bessie to bring these worrisome gents some drink. She winks and nods. “If it pleases you, Sir.”
    â€œIt 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!
    â€œSo, young Mr. Wheeler, tell us where last you