Under the Jolly Roger: Being an Account of the Further Nautical Adventures of Jacky Faber

Then it hits me.... And it hits me with the force of a blow. I am maybe fifteen years old. I am a girl. I am also acting lieutenant in the Royal Navy, and, by the Naval Rules and Regulations as regards the chain of command, I am in command of His Majesty's Ship Wolverine.

We clear the harbor and the wind catches her sails and my beautiful ship leans over ever so gracefully, and her elegant bow cuts cleanly into the increasing chop of the waves. I take a deep breath and my chest expands and my heart starts thumping so strongly I fear the others might see it beat through the cloth of my jacket. I face the wind and my lips peel back from my teeth in a grin of pure joy.

Ah Padriac. I have often wondered if boys who have flaming red hair up top also have...yep.

I seek the face of God in the sky and in the waves of the ocean, not in some book or on my knees in some dusty church. “I

I bow to the Captain—I think a curtsy would be a bit out of place here—and recite, in French, the little speech I had made up for these occasions to try to tone down my growing reputation as a bloodthirsty pirate. “I am Jacky La Faber. Perhaps you have heard of me. I am a privateer who takes ships and their cargoes, but I neither harm nor rob the crews or the passengers of the ships I seize, no matter what you may have heard. You and your men will be put in one of your lifeboats and allowed to return to France.

I suppose Boston and its inhabitants have by now recovered from your visit?” “I guess so, but Boston was burning right cheerfully as I left.” Higgins