Author: Pink
Keywords: .
Summary: A piratical romance about one of Jenny's spiritual forebears.
15 June 1620. London, England. Jennifer Allen peered out the window at a black night, punctuated by the beating sound of heavy rain driving against the glass. In the distance, waves, barely visible in the darkness, crashed in white foamy spray against the Chamberlain Pier and tossed a moored carrack.
Life was hard for Jenny. She washed floors and dishes, cooked food, counted receipts, ordered supplies, chopped wood fuel, and waited on customers in the Burghley Inn. The Inn was extremely busy and profitable, and welcomed all classes of life in London.
Her reverie was broken by the voice of the owner, Christopher Burghley.
"Jenny, pray tell why in hell you're not bringing out another pot of coffee!!" he yelled from the doorway.
"Yessir, Mr. Burghley," she rapidly replied, grabbing the handle of one of six pots she had been brewing in the smoky kitchen. With the other hand, she threw two more steaks onto the grill as she hurried past.
Jenny wore a standard wench's outfit, complete with neck ribbon, petticoat, ruffled black dress, and a white corset that pushed her size 36c breasts out and up, preferably into the faces of paying customers. She was 6 foot 6, with fiery, curly red hair and a temper to match. Her face was freckled and her figure magnificent.
The door banged open ahead of her. She ran over to one of the massive oak tables in the noisy dining room, which was filled with smoke. A dozen huge, ragged seamen sat around it, ravenously devouring their food and guzzling ale like they had drains in their behinds. She found them ignorant, uncouth, and disgusting. But their likes were the reason for the inn's success.
One of them yelled, "To the crew of the mighty Henry!", and they all raised their glasses with hoarse grunts.
As she leaned between two of them to fill their cups, the massive, bearded man on her right grabbed her tall frame, and swung her easily up onto the table. She felt his dirty plate under her bottom, but worse, she felt his hands and the hands of three others firmly unbuttoning her dress. She squealed and struggled, but there were too many. Amid their throaty laughter, she strained her muscles and blushed a deep shade of red. Not waiting for gentleness, they ripped away her petticoat. Her shoes fell away, and she felt her frilly drawers slipping down her long, shapely, white-stockinged legs. Her stockings and corset were similarly torn by their strong, soiled hands, and she was left, panting heavily, stark naked except for the shiny black ribbon around her lovely white throat, in front of the sailor-packed dining room. The first drunk then pinned her hands behind her, leaped onto the tabletop, and dragged her upwards. He walked her, naked, around the table. She felt her soles and toes squish through potatoes and soup, and shrank under the hoots and admiring stares of the diners. A few tears stained her red cheeks.
After what seemed like hours of humiliation, Jenny was released to run, holding her bouncing, full breasts, back into the kitchen.
Christopher Burghley stepped in after her, staring at her naked form with a vacant expression.
"Jenny, get some clothes on and serve that other table!" he barked, then walked back out to look after the richer clientele.
Softly sobbing, she found a soiled old maid's uniform in the closet, and pulled it on in misery. The next hour went slowly, and the steamy kitchen seemed truly a hell on earth.
Jenny had spent years purchasing and boiling coffee, toiling in service of others, being swept along by the turbulent events around her. Never in control, never seeming to make a difference in the affairs of people, always a footnote at most.
She heard a door bang open behind the inn. Glancing wearily out the window, she spotted a large, dark, hulking figure stagger to the outhouse. It was the tall, bearded sailor from the Henry!
It only took a split second to change her life. With a certainty bred of anger, she grabbed the largest kitchen cleaver off the chopping table, opened the back door, and stepped into the rain. Slipping slightly in the mud, she walked carefully up behind him. She could smell his stench, and noticed his drunken stupor. As he stopped at the outhouse door, she buried the cleaver in his back. A very brief but horrifying cry went out from him, and he toppled with a great splash into the mud. Paralyzed, she gazed for a moment at the bright red blood pumping from his side, mingling with the muddy water and streaming away.
Looking around quickly, she stared at the distant pier, then bounded away, running headlong for the moored carrack. It was a small, fast merchant ship of the British East India line. In the dim light, she could make out the name: "Tobermory" on her wet black forecastle. Running up, she surveyed the scene, then quietly hurried up the gangplank. In the miserable weather, noone was on deck. She searched and found a hiding spot in an arms closet on the port side of the pine- floored poop deck. Dirty, exhausted, and dispirited, her breathing slowing, she fell asleep, awaiting what the fates might bring.......
Movement awakened Jenny. The ship was leaving Sheerness harbor at the mouth of the Thames well before dawn. The rains had subsided a bit, but seas were still over 3 feet. She knew nothing of sailing, but when she cautiously peered through a crack in the weathered door, she recognized the dark silhouette against approaching dawn of a totally unfurled mainsail majestically bowed with a strong northwest wind.
Within an hour, the Tobermory had moved past North Foreland Point and into the Straight of Dover and the Channel. The English Channel was treacherous at night, but the captain was hoping to avoid attacks by pirates on his rich cargo by slipping into the Atlantic under cover of darkness.
Jenny wedged herself behind some boxes of shells, trying to figure out what to do next, becoming hungry. Then shouting attracted her attention. This time, the door banged open, and several men began hauling out blunderbusses and ammunition, not noticing the huddled woman in the shadows. They were being chased by pirates!
Loud crashes towards the forecastle, followed in turn by distant booms over the water ushered in a ten-minute cannon battering from the attacking vessel. The Tobermory shook, and finally the mainmast toppled with an enormous splintering sound. The pirate captain ordered one volley too many, for the next one put a hole in the starboard hull that flooded the hold of the Tobermory and doomed the huge merchant ship.
Jenny emerged from the arms closet. Frantic crewmen, concerned for their own lives, saw but ignored her. The ship was sinking quickly, and Jenny made a graceful dive off the top of the railing. She swam a few yards away, and watched as another cannonball found the arms closet, resulting in a deafening explosion that lit up the ocean for miles and displayed a beautiful pirate galleon 50 yards away. Pieces of shattered wooden deck and torn brown sail canvas rained down on the water around her, some pieces on fire.
The pirate vessel slowly edged into the floating wreckage. Men clambered all over the rigging, furling the square mainsails, and swinging the triangular yard sails fore and aft to catch the wind. Jenny hung onto the side of a huge floating cargo crate. Smoke still wafted from the muzzles of large black iron cannons that poked menacingly from dark holes in the brown side of the ship. It soon became clear that the pirates were looking for survivors that might have valuables on their person, abandoning or killing those who didn't.
Finally they spotted her. A short, swarthy man, well dressed, called down to her.
"You, have any jewelry on you?" he yelled.
"Yes, yes!" she yelled upwards at him. A rope hit her in the face, and she wrapped it around her waist. Her bare feet could not gain a foothold on the slimy outer hull, so she allowed them to unceremoniously haul her up.
There were half a dozen men gathered round, and additional small groups elsewhere on the deck. The men held guns, knives, and swords. One grabbed her arm as she clambered over the ornate wooden railing, and heavily fell to the wet deck.
She had visions of the previous day as two men held her while another proceeded to undress her under the appreciative eyes of the rest. As they took each piece of clothing, it was thoroughly searched, ripped, discarded. At last she stood, naked again. Her wet breasts, lit by lanterns and brightening sky, heaved in agitation, the nipples stiff from the cool air. Transfixed for a moment, the group stared at her. She crossed her legs slightly, trying in vain to cover her enormous thatch of fuzzy red pubic hair.
"Not even a bloody necklace!" cursed a tall, thin man in pantaloons, spitting over the railing. He stepped forward, and reaching out with his left hand, squeezed her right breast. Her eyes bugged out, and with great force she brought her right knee up and into his groin. With a great scream, he doubled up and fell to the deck.
The other men hesitated for a second, then laughed with great roars. The tall man stood up with difficulty, muttering "Bitch!" under his breath. He had taken one step towards her when the ship's captain yelled from the forecastle.
"Underway NOW! We must clear the channel quickly!" Men scrambled wildly around the deck, jumping up onto the rigging. The two men holding her looked at each other, shrugged, and moved her back to the railing.
"We'll just let the sharks decide on yer punishment, wench!" They lifted her up, and carelessly threw her out and away. She fell with a great, awkward splash. The tall man she had kneed glanced down after her, spit again, and walked out of sight.
The pirate galleon moved off, its magnificent mainsails unfurled and catching the wind. Jenny paddled over to one of the numerous floating crates, and again grabbed hold. The ship soon was no longer visible, and Jenny called a few times, concluding that she was the only survivor of the attack.
The morning was cool, breezy, and bright. The naked Jenny could not get the word "sharks" out of her mind, and had clambered onto one of the huge packing crates.
Several dozen Wandering Albatrosses soared high overhead, occasionally diving, hitting the sea, emerging with small fish in their beaks, then taking off again with a great flapping commotion.
Then she noticed fins in the water. She self-conciously moved her bare feet and naked legs back from the edge of the crate, and peered carefully downward over into the turbulent green depths. Without warning, a shiny, tan-gray nose broke the surface, splashing salt water in her face. With a clicking racket, the White- Sided Dolphin rose out of the water, looking at her with one eye. Another dolphin joined it, then another. There was a school of them, frolicking about. Jenny, again tiring, lay down on her naked belly, her beautifully rounded naked rump in the air, rested her chin on her hands, and fell asleep while watching them.
She awoke to the sounds of waves crashing on a beach. Excitedly, she scanned the horizon, seeing a coastline. The strong currents of the Channel had brought her to land. Within another hour, she was washed onto an isolated, deserted beach near Plymouth.
Jenny realized that dozens of the large crates from the destroyed carrack had washed up onto the beach with her. Using a piece of driftwood, she began to pry them open. Her eyes soon widened and a long-unused smile developed on her beautiful, full lips as hundreds of pounds of cargo were exposed. Rich coffee from Indonesia, exquisite jewelry, pearls from Japan, Italian wine and clothing, intricately worked gold chains, porcelain and spices from China, wine, dried meats......
Over the next few days Jenny shepherded the floating cargo onto the beach, removed and stored it in low bushes, and regained her strength.
Janice Lord was amazed at the surprise visitor in her sail repair shop in Plymouth Harbor. The young lady named Jenny Allen wore fine leather clothing, a bright scarf around her neck, and tall boots. Her red hair hung in great, curly tresses over her shoulders. She brought great wealth with her, proposed what amounted to a buy-out of the operation, produced a large leather pouch from her purse, and emptied a huge mound of rubies onto the mahogany table in Janice's office.
"I want to buy out your operation, I want your people, and I want you too."
The tall, statuesque woman exuded confidence and paced back and forth, glancing out the supervisor's window at rows and rows of low-class young women toiling at sewing benches, piecing together great canvas sails, some with beautiful designs of crosses or English Coats-of-Arms.
Janice carefully picked up a huge handful of the jewels, feeling their heavy weight and smooth, polished luster. "What do you want us for, Miss Allen?" she asked, eyes wide with the mystery of it.
"For adventure, for travel, for power, for independence," Jenny softly replied, displaying a confident smile. Janice looked up from the rubies in her hands, and Jenny saw her smile was infectious.
Martin Winthrop sat hunched in a quiet bar a block from the Plymouth waterfront. He wore dirty black jacket and trousers, and well-worn leather boots. He morosely contemplated the jigger of scotch, tilted the small glass to roll the liquid. He took a quick swig of the burning fluid, grimaced, and set the glass down with an audible tap. It was followed by a heavy, metallic thump as a white canvas bag dropped to the scratched, stained tabletop in front of him.
Startled, he looked up. Jenny Allen stood beside him, wearing a long, heavy brown cloak with a monk-like hood which hid her red hair. Her face was expressionless. She gave a quick nod towards the bag.
Keeping an eye on her, Winthrop slowly extended one hand and lifted the lip of the canvas. There were four bars of gleaming silver inside, each about a foot long and three inches thick. Winthrop raised an eyebrow, and suddenly straightened up. He pushed a shock of black hair away from one eye, and rose to face her. She was about a foot taller than him.
"Mr. Winthrop, I need your help. I've searched Plymouth carefully, and think you're my man."
"What for?"
"For your ship, the "Dauntless. I want to buy it and your services as First Mate to sail her and train my crew. Interested?"
Winthrop raised his eyebrows again, pursed his lips to one side, and furrowed his brow.
"Well, you've probably heard business has been slow for me." He solemnly patted the bag. "This should pay my debts, but it could probably buy a new ship. Why me?"
"I'd rather start out quietly. And I'm looking for a small caravel like yours. Something that's well-armed, but can move quickly compared to the big galleons. We may be engaging in some unorthodox enterprises." She folded her arms across her chest, and Winthrop slowly smiled, moving his mouth into a silent "Oh". He said, "It's a deal, miss...."
"Just call me Jenny," she smiled, reaching out with her right hand.
A month later, the Dauntless was running with the wind off Cape Cornwall, Her small mainsail magnificently full. To improve her maneuverability, the seamstresses had fitted her with larger-than-normal yard sails, which could be adjusted to tack more effectively than the larger warships of the day.
The crew was 148 women, ten men: Winthrop and his navigator William Yardley, and seven of his former male crewmembers. The women were all seamstresses from Janice Lord's shop, masters at manufacturing and fitting sails. Janice herself was now a "Second Mate" of sorts, organizing her former employees.
The sun was brilliant today, 22 July 1620, and the seas full of whitecaps. Jenny stood on the forecastle, talking with Winthrop.
"How close are we to being ready for a crossing of the Atlantic, Martin?" she asked.
"I think we could do it now, captain," he smiled, holding onto the railing as the ship bucked a wave and they were showered with salt spray.
Then they heard the characteristic deep booming in the distance of large cannon. A woman in the crow's nest called down that a running chase was in progress, a league aport.
Jenny brought the Dauntless about, and they raced towards the scene. A Spanish galleon - probably 400 tons - was chasing a small English snow which was clearly unarmed. The larger Spanish ship was firing over her bow, so far unable to stop her flight.
The sleek Dauntless easily came up behind. Jenny ordered the crew to load all cannons, and be ready to unfurl and then quickly furl the sails again. They surprised the other captain, and put several balls at the galleon's waterline before opening sails and running off. The Spanish ship began to take on water, and immediately broke off its chase.
Half an hour later, the Dauntless came up beside the small English ship. Its deck was filled with smiling passengers, all curiously staring at the Dauntless. Jenny and her captain yelled over the 50-ft distance between them.
"Where are you headed?" yelled Jenny.
"Across the Atlantic," he replied. "We much appreciate your God-sent assistance, ma'am!"
"Why are you all leaving?"
"We are looking for a place where we can make our own decisions. The Crown of James I doesn't speak to our needs, our traditions." He spread his arms, gesturing. "We're tired of the government telling us what to believe, harrassing us with over-zealous prosecutors. Their hypocrisy has made us weary!"
"Well, good luck, then!" she waved, and the two ships began to part, rocking in the swells.
Jenny turned to Winthrop, and wondered, "Martin, do you think we'll ever be able to influence our history like people such as these? They have such strong wills!"
Winthrop laughed. "Nay, captain, I think we're just a blink in history's eye, not to be remembered, having no impact." He smiled again, then turned and walked down to the main deck.
Jenny looked wistfully after the departing ship, its name clearly showing on the gunwale: "Mayflower".
Six months later, A group of sailors from the Henry sat around a table in the Burghley Inn. They made much noise, and dropped much food on the table and floor. They also harassed the new cook-and-waitress, who hurried, overheated, between their needs and the needs of cleaning the inn and kitchen. Occasionally, they would squeeze her butt, her breasts, or call obscenely to her in the kitchen. Finally, one of them grabbed her, and began to rip off her wench's uniform.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, mate!" came a woman's voice behind him. They hadn't, in all the excitement, noticed her entrance. She was a tall redhead wearing a long brown hooded robe. She had a cutlass strapped to her right hip, and a knife in her belt.
The sailor dropped the waitress to the wooden floor, and stood, a little weak from his inebriation.
"Damn wench!" he growled. The other sailors laughed.
He stepped forward, but immediately met her cutlass at his throat. It then, with dizzying speed, slashed back and forth down his clothing till he stood only in his boots. His erection, born of his wrestle with the waitress, sprang up rudely to salute her. She then pointed the glinting tip of the sword directly at his hanging balls, touching them ever-so-slightly.
"Laddy, I want you to walk out that door, and never come back! And, definitely, NEVER treat a woman like that again! Got it?" She prodded him towards the door with the sword.
"Bu- bu- but my clothes!" he complained.
"OUT!" she yelled. He went, and she gave him a stinging swat with the cutlass on his naked departing ass before he fell through the door.
She quickly whirled, and stared at the other sailors from the Henry, tapping one booted foot on the floor. They all immediately jumped to their feet and followed their companion.
Jenny of the High Seas walked over to the cowering waitress, flipped her a small bag of coins. "I think you can do better than this, sweety!" Jenny then hurried through the kitchen and disappeared out the back door and into the night.......