The Good Ship

by William Bowden

“We realise, Jean-Marc, that with the untimely death of your beloved father Alain, the ship is without it’s Captain”. Here the Admiral paused, his lower lip quavering slightly in a hideous parody of suggestiveness. The old man looked at his colleagues, as if savouring the moment then continued, “and the good ship Peta-Lee would not be the same without a Picard in command now would she?”

“No Sir!” responded Jean-Marc.

“It is therefore my pleasant duty to officially place you in command of the Peta Lee as of this day; October the 20th in the year of our Lord 1805. Your nomination in this matter has been unanimous and we wish you every success for France and the Emperor! Felicitations Mon Capitan Jean-Marc Picard!”

And with that glasses of Cognac were being raised and Jean-Marc’s hand was being shaken.

After the momentary celebrations were over the Admiral’s face turned serious.

“Now Jean-Marc, your orders are to sail tonight. Just out of the bay you will rendezvous with the Spanish galleon Cervantes under command of Jesu Rodrigez. After that, the two ships will sail due North and join Admiral Villeneuve’s fleet. We anticipate you will engage the English fleet somewhere near Trafalgar. I don’t need to reinforce the seriousness of this mission. All our beloved Napoleon’s invasion plans hinge on a decisive victory over the British. I have no doubt you and your men will do their duty and you are ordered to extend all possible courtesy to our Spanish allies.”

“But Sir!” blurted out Jean-Marc, “We can’t trust the Spaniards — they’re animals ... they killed my ... ”

“Captain Picard, control yourself! If you can’t be trusted with this mission then I’ll find someone who can. I’ve chosen you because the men all know and trust you. I know you hate the Spanish, as do I, but I’m relying on you as an officer and a gentleman to control both your crew and yourself. France herself depends on you in this important hour. Our alliance with the Spaniards may yet languish and you may have your revenge — but not now ... not tonight. Dismissed!”

And with that Picard was heading for the docks. He hurried along the cobbled streets — eager to inspect his beloved ship before the light began to fail. At last she was his! In all her beauty and grace, she was his! Whilst his father had been an excellent sailor and brilliant strategist, he’d always been strangely emotionless about the Peta Lee. Indeed Alain Picard had always seemed more focussed on the welfare and camaraderie of his men. “Brave souls!” he used to say at the beginning of every speech. And at the end of every battle he could hardly wait to return home and boast of his conquests both locally and abroad. Alain Picard appeared to know far more about the location and quality of every Parisian whore, when he should have been concentrating on the condition of every bow-line, halyard and keelson!

In a way Jean-Marc had always hated his father; but since his mother had died during childbirth, Alain and the Peta Lee were the only family he had ever known. He felt a sense of urgency and quickened his step. Since the Spaniards had killed his Father in a fruitless bordello brawl, Jean-Marc had rarely strayed from the bosom of his ship. Indeed he rarely did anyway, even when on leave and now he especially wanted to be with her.

As he rounded the corner of the Rue de Bologne, there she was in all her glory. Awash with seamen and glistening provocatively in the golden afternoon sun. Quite a spectacle! Gently rocking back and forth as if beckoning him, motioning to him, calling him. Jean-Marc always enjoyed this part the most. Before mounting the gangplank and coming aboard, he liked to wander the dock and view the ship from stem to stern. It had become a ritual of sorts. It was as if by parading up and down he was torturing her in a subtle and delicious way. It was the prelude ... and a tease which he had done ever since he could remember. He wouldn’t touch her, no, not any part — not even a mooring line until he was ready. She had to want him, had to desire him, had to roll in suppressed wantonness for him to come to her.

Today was also unlike any other in the sense that now she was truly his. There would be no interruption, no abrupt utterance from his father or the importunate rambling’s of a wainwright or caulker to put him off. The sailors onboard all knew this routine and would not dare interfere. Even the officers would wait till he was aboard before assailing him. No, today as he began his journey they were finally alone ...

Jean-Marc began at the stern — as she was aimed seawards — but if truth be told he always began at the rear. He stopped to admire the curve of her rudder. The wood had been carved from a single giant beech, and had worn to the smoothest of silky textures by the endless caress of the sea. It looked long and slender as it proudly emerged from the lapping water and secured itself to the aft deck. Indeed, the entire back of the ship was an exercise in loveliness. The fulsome curves and generous beam brought about a slight quickening of Jean-Marc’s pulse and he decided to move on, although part of him was loath to do so and could have stood transfixed by the alluring view for an eternity.

He moved slowly along the side of the vessel, not too close, so he could at all times see the fabulous strength of the mainmast; which almost appeared to cleave the ship in two with it’s impressive girth and grandeur. How he admired that lovely wood, and how insignificant it made him feel. As a child he remembered quite clearly wanting to be that mast. More than anything. He had wanted to join with it, to become one. And he also remembered being laughed at cruelly by his Father, as the childish knots that fastened him to it — were so easily undone. Then afterwards, being dragged off the deck by a stern-faced midshipman and thrown into his bunk — to receive only cold comfort from the lowliest of crewmembers: Roger the cabin boy.

Jean-Marc quickened his step. This was all part of the game. He had, in his time, fondled and groped his way round every inch of her. And yet every cleft, every protrusion held so much in the way of shared experience that it was now quite perilous at times. Sometimes he wondered whether it was not the Peta Lee herself calling up these recollections as part of a reinforcement of intimacy. She might almost be saying: Remember what happened down here, or I know you Jean-Marc, we did it together.

With some little effort he forced his way amidships. Ahhhh the glistening cannons. So triumphant, so victorious. How resolute and firm they made him feel. How powerful and sudden they were, how loud in voice and deadly in song. How happily he would train them on any unworthy interloper who threatened her honour! The way they protruded from this; the most voluptuous curve of the ship — made him proud indeed to be a Frenchman!

And up above the cannon, the delightful, almost playful flutter of the flags. Were these the eyelids of the Peta Lee ? Batting only for him as they looked down from above the handsome furl of the mainsail. They seemed to be smiling on him today — as did the mouth-like curve of the boom. Perhaps it was whispering of the joys awaiting them, out on the boundless and unfettered playground of the ocean.

Jean-Marc slowly and deliberately made his way round to the front of the ship. He allowed himself a precious moment before looking up at the one feature that always took his breath away; The Maiden. Carved from a single piece of oak, and hand painted by the legendary du Bois brothers of Paris, she was the loveliest image of femininity he had ever known.

She seemed almost to burst forth from the prow of the ship — and whilst her ample chest dangled alluringly in his direction — her eyes gazed fiercely out towards the horizon. She was, for Jean-Marc, the soul of the Peta Lee, the maidenhead if you like, and he felt she was the Helen of Troy that led them on all their endless quests and follies. He watched, entranced, as a droplet of seawater fell from her nipple, and almost toppled over in his subconscious attempt to swallow it. How joyous it would be to kiss her, to suckle at her bosom, to feel her buck and heave beneath him. To take her as his own and have his way. His mind began to cloud over. The absurd lines “I must have her! I must have her!” kept beating behind his temples like a never-ending tattoo. “I must have her, I must have her, I MUST HAVE HER! I MUST HAVE HER!” He couldn’t handle it anymore, I must have her, couldn’t hold back, I must have her, wait a second longer, I must have her, he couldn’t control it, couldn’t hold on, I must have her, the longing, the desire, I must have her, — it was almost too much, no, it was! It was too much, I must have her, must have her, and so, I must have ...! in an instant ... the game was over.

Jean-Marc fumbled urgently for a cigarette. Christ that was intense , he thought, and then suddenly found himself laughing out loud. Wow, that was the best one yet. With his Father out of the way he seemed less inhibited, less paranoid. He even smiled up at the sailors who appeared to be glancing in his direction, leaning over the side of the rail and nudging each other knowingly. This was how it had always been, this was how it would always be. Jean-Marc would take himself to the brink of desire and then mount the plank.

He could hardly wait to get on board, today was the day, now was the hour. He could feel in his very marrow that this was to be a propitious union. They were going to crush the British fleet, heralds would sing the name of the Peta Lee at Trafalgar in centuries to come! They would sing the name of Picard, oh yes, the two intertwined throughout all history as it should be. And as for the Spanish, yes indeed, if there was a Spaniard in the works he and she would root him out, together, and they would reclaim the family honour, while rejoicing as they hung the traitor’s guts from the rigging. All it took was a good ship, no, a great ship and a worthy commander!

“Prepare to cast off!”