The Wake of the Lorelei Lee

by L. A. Meyer

  I hear Amy shout in alarm and then he is on me. He bumps my poor little mare and reaches around my waist and hauls me off her and over in front of him. I squeal and pummel him with my balled-up fists, but to no avail. He pins my arms to my sides and holds me tight.

  What? Am I to be kidnapped after all that has happened?

  I twist and struggle but cannot—damn!—free my arms. But I find I can lift my left hand, and with it, I reach up and pull down my assailant’s kerchief. My mouth drops open in delighted astonishment.

  “Randall!” I gasp. “How—”

  But I don’t get to say more because the rogue’s mouth comes down upon mine, stifling my cries of delight. I give up the fight and put my arms around him and hug him tight.

  “Well met, Lieutenant Bouvier,” says the grinning rascal when our lips part.

  “Oh, very well met, Lieutenant Trevelyne! So very well met! When . . . ? How . . . ?”

  “Later, Jacky my love. Right now I’m hungry for a bite to eat, a bottle of good wine, and another of your sweet kisses.”

  As he plants another one on me, Amy picks up the reins of my former mount and prepares to lead her off down the hill.

  “Good to see you, Brother,” she says simply. “Jacky, I assume you’ll be riding back to the house on your present perch. Ah, I thought so.”

  Well, I can’t say nay to that, no I can’t. Nor do I want to.

  Lunch had been prepared and laid out on the large table in the grand dining room. If it had been just Amy and I, we would have taken our dinner in the kitchen, but that would not do for the young lord of the manor, oh, no. He must have the finest upon his return to the ancestral manse. Bottles of the best wine are cracked, several geese pay the price of being geese, and there is jubilation all around the household—the young master is back!

  “So, Randall,” I say, seating myself next to him in a chair he has pulled out for me. “It appears you have joined the English army. I can scarce believe it.” His jacket is of the deepest scarlet with white turnouts and cuffs and a high—red leather?—collar. He does look awfully good in it.

  He tilts back his head and laughs. “No, my love. Although I have enraged Father many times in the past, for that he would surely put a bullet between my eyes.” He beckons for Blount, the butler, who usually acts as Randall’s valet when he is home, to refill his glass. I take a small sip from mine. It is always best that I keep a clear head when I am around this rascal, else I should end up on my back, with a heavy bit of explaining to do later. Well I remember that time under the rosebushes.

  “No, once again, I am following your lead, Jacky,” he says, leaning back in his chair and tapping his empty wineglass with his knife. “I am going to sea.” The attentive Blount once again fills his goblet.

  I give a small gasp of surprise. “To sea? Randall, you don’t know the first thing about seamanship. What captain would take you on as an officer?”

  “Not a sea captain, maybe, but perhaps a seaborne colonel,” he says smugly. “You are gazing, in what I plainly see is open and frank admiration, at Second Lieutenant Randall Tristan Trevelyne, United States Marine Corps.”

  What?

  “I would have thought we were done with uniforms, Randall, after all that we had witnessed at Jena.” I see now that there are gold fouled-anchor pins on his collar, with the initials USA embossed upon them.

  He loses his smile at that and merely nods. I know he is thinking of that awful day in Germany. I’m sure he had made many friends in Napoleon’s army, and I’m equally sure he saw some of them die, as did I. Randall had always wanted to see what war was like, and he found out then, for sure—thirty thousand young men lying dead on the plains of Jena and Auerstadt. He gives his head a shake, and the smile—though a bit forced, I think—is back.

  “Thank you again for saving my life, Randall,” I murmur, lifting my glass to him and recalling that time when I lay helpless upon my back about to be gutted by a Prussian bayonet.

  “Think nothing of it, my dear,” he says, leering at me over the rim of his wineglass. “But you must know that I shall expect repayment in full—if not in kind, then in deed.” He takes another pull at his wine and continues. “I am assigned to the frigate Constitution, which lies at Long Wharf in Boston Harbor, and we leave next week for some exercise or other. Therefore, that means I do not have much time to complete the seduction of Miss Jacky Faber, so we must get down to it with all possible speed, such that the, um, deed can be done with all possible dispatch. As you naval types would put it, ‘Not a moment to lose!’”

  “You might have even less time than that, Randall,” I counter, grinning my foxy grin at the rascal. “I intend to ship out for London the moment I receive a letter from Lieutenant James Fletcher, my intended husband, informing me that the coast is clear for my return and our eventual marriage.”

  “Umm. Him again,” says Randall, dismissing Jaimy with a shake of his head. “Well, we shall see about that.”

  “How did you get your commission, Brother?” asks Amy, to change the subject. Discussion of my eventual seduction and ravishment not being a comfortable topic for her.

  “The Commander-in-Chief of the newly formed Marine Corps, Colonel Burrows, was in Boston when I debarked, so I secured an interview. I showed up, resplendent in my French Cavalry officer’s uniform, told him of my experiences in the Grand Army of the Republic, and within an hour I was being fitted for this uniform, commission as Officer and Gentleman in hand.”

  “Why are you here, Brother”—Amy had given a ladylike snort at the word gentleman—“and not resident at some house of ill repute in Boston?” she asks. “I believe Miss Bodeen’s is still in operation and should suit your needs quite well.”

  “Surely not to see you, dear sister of mine,” retorts Randall, not in the least abashed. “Actually, after being fitted, I sought out Ezra Pickering, to determine if he knew anything as to the whereabouts of our gadabout young warrior goddess. He informed me she was here, and off I galloped. I do have to accomplish this seduction, you know. I feel it is my duty as a rakehell, a cad, and a scoundrel.”

  “How is Mr. Pickering?” asks Amy, again trying to steer the conversation in a more seemly direction.

  “He is well,” answers Randall. “And actually, he is quite an amusing fellow—for a lawyer—and excellent company. We had a fine lunch together at the Pig and Whistle. I hereby give you my permission to marry him.”

  Amy chokes at that. When she composes herself, she hisses, “Aside from the fact that I am not yet ready for that sort of thing, Randall, what makes you think that I would ask your permission?” Amy’s back is ramrod straight.

  “Because, ma chère soeur, when Father is not here, I am in charge of you and what you will or will not do. Surely you know that?”

  Amy says nothing, but only sits and fumes. What he has said, of course, is, unfortunately, the absolute truth.

  He continues. “Pickering seems quite taken with you, as a matter of fact. Poor man, I cannot imagine why,” says Randall. He tosses his napkin onto his plate, places a cheroot between his teeth, and leans back as Blount offers a burning match to light it. Puffing mightily and sending out a cloud of vile smoke, Randall looks about him, then says, “But maybe this is what he is taken with.” He gestures all about him at the fine dining room, the ballroom beyond the French doors, taking in with that gesture all the rich grandeur that is Dovecote.

  Oh, Lord, that cuts it.

  Amy leaps to her feet. “That is despicable! How could you possibly impugn the name of a fine gentleman like Ezra Pickering with a slanderous statement like that! You—you . . .”

  I spare Amy her sputtering search for the proper epithet by jumping to my own feet and putting my arms around her outraged self and exclaiming, “Please, Sister, it is only Randall being Randall. Let us rejoice in his safe return and not take all he says to heart. Please, Amy, sit back down. He did not mean that. Please. Randall, be good.”

  She reluctantly sits, and
so do I. Randall eyes me through the smoke of his cigar.

  “So,” he says, “Jacky Faber, the young snippet I first met as a simple chambermaid now owns two ships and a shipping company. How did you manage that?”

  “Hard work and sound investments,” I primly reply, wanting to quickly get off this particular subject. Since the purchase of the Lorelei Lee, Amy, too, has wondered at Faber Shipping’s sudden rise in fortune. But I have put her off with the same sort of weak explanations, as we can’t have her putting my gold-hoarding scam into print for all of England to read, now, can we? I can see it now: The Rapture of the Deep, Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Mary Faber—Urchin, Orphan, Thief, Sometime-Sailor, Sometime-Soldier, Sometime-Spy—She Who Stole Even More of the King’s Treasure and Deserves to Hang for It.

  No, we cannot have that.

  “And a good bit of simple larceny, too, I’ll wager.” Randall laughs, and I notice that Amy does not contradict that, but only slides her eyes over to look at me.

  “Ahem. Well, enough of that,” I say, pushing on. “Again, Randall, I must ask you, after what we have seen of the horror and carnage of war, why would you once again put a uniform on your back and go to live the ofttimes rough and sometimes murderous military life?”

  He considers this, putting the heel of his left boot on the table. Eventually, he says, “What else am I going to do? I am not a scholar wishing only to sit in a garret to pore over the dusty pages of academe, the words of long-dead men. My time at Harvard has proven that. No. Nor do I wish to study the Law—Good God, I leave that to Ezra and his ilk. Take on the vestments of Divinity? Could you imagine the Very Reverend Randall Trevelyne? The heavens would open up, and destruction would reign upon the entire world at that outrage.”

  I myself have to laugh outright at that image. “Yes, floods and plagues and clouds of locusts would surely follow your ordination.”

  “Ummm . . . right. So, being too big to be a jockey, too small for a prizefighter, and detesting farming, it is the life of a soldier for me.”

  “What of politics? Have you not considered that? Would it not suit your rascally nature, Randall?” I tease.

  “Hmmm . . .” He muses on this possibility. “After I distinguish myself in the Marine Corps, it is not impossible that I could become Governor of this state. Or even President. I would not mind having a horde of sycophants licking my boots. Actually, that is quite an attractive notion. Thank you, Jacky, I had not thought of that.”

  Amy gags at the notion of his being the governor of anything, and I laugh and rise. “Come, Randall,” I say. “Let us see how politic you can be. I want you to stand and embrace Amy and say, ‘How good it is to see you, Sister.’ And Amy, I want you to hug him to you and say, ‘Welcome back, Brother. I am so glad you have come back to us safely.’ If either of you refuse, then I shall speak to neither of you and will immediately head back to Boston and you will be denied my company, for whatever that is worth.” And that is just how politic I can be.

  They do it, and I think that despite all of their posturing, they are sincere in their expressions of affection, each for the other.

  Chapter 3

  “Come on, Amy! Let us go! The horses are saddled and ready!”

  Amy Trevelyne sighs, then puts up her pen. She has been taking down yet another of my rambling accounts. This time I’m telling her about the rather riotous trip I took last summer on the Allegheny, the Ohio, and the Mississippi—rivers that course through the great American frontier wilderness—and I have become restless in the telling of it. It is too nice a day to be indoors, even if it is in Amy’s pretty little room. Her scribblings are sure to end up in yet another lurid book recounting my misadventures as I stumble through this life, sometimes properly clothed and well-mannered, though mostly not. But it is all to the good, I figure, as it makes her happy. And thanks to Amy’s generosity, the proceeds from sales go to help support my London Home for Little Wanderers.

  It is Saturday, the second day of our stay at Dovecote, and, since we must return to Boston tomorrow to get Joannie back to the Lawson Peabody in time for Monday’s classes, I intend to make the most of this fine day. I have been informed by Amy that a spot on the fallow fields of the south forty acres has been leased to a religious revival, and I insist that we go see it.

  “But, why, Sister?” she asks. “That sort of thing always seems so . . . primitive.”

  “Aw, Amy, it’s just a show like any other, and maybe it’ll be fun. They are sure to have some rousing hymns. And it will be good for my Immortal Soul, which certainly could use a bit of a wash.”

  She sighs, then says, “I am sure you are right in thinking that. Very well.” Amy does a lot of that—sighing, I mean—especially when I’m around.

  We do not take Joannie with us on this outing, as she has not yet had many equestrian classes and could not keep up with us. Besides, she seems quite content to gambol about the place with Daniel. Narrowing my eyes, I warn the both of them to be good, but I suspect the hayloft will get a long visit this afternoon. This being April, I am sure the river is still too cold to swim in, but I suspect the two scamps have brought their Caribbean swimming suits with them and would like nothing better than to take a dip for fun and to scandalize the other kids on the farm. So maybe they’ll brave it, because it is so nice and sunny and warm.

  So with good mounts under us and our riding jackets on our backs, Amy and I pound away in search of Redemption.

  Randall has begged off, too, saying he’ll be damned if he’ll waste one moment of his remaining time ashore listening to religious claptrap. He rides with us to the gates of the farm, where he splits off, heading for a nearby tavern in hopes of finding some sport. As that inn has a bit of a notorious reputation, the rogue will probably find it.

  “I will be back for dinner, ladies,” he says as he prepares to ride away. “Make sure a place is laid for me. Tallyho and all that.”

  Before he goes, he leans over and gives my right thigh, just above the knee, a bit of a squeeze and says, “Till later, my sweet little Tartar, and we will take up where we left off.”

  “It is probably too much to expect to see him come back sober,” growls Amy as we watch the dust settle behind him. “But let us now go see this . . . er, show.”

  We give heels to horse, and with a whoop! from me, we are off.

  Coming up over a knoll, we see the revival spread out below us. There are hundreds of people seated on makeshift benches and hundreds more standing around behind them. All are swaying to the cadence of the hymn that is being sung by all.

  Bright morning stars are rising,

  Bright morning stars are rising,

  Bright morning stars are rising,

  And day is breaking in my soul.

  “Coo!” I exclaim, after I have sung along with the very familiar verse, as we on the Belle of the Golden West used to include this song as part of our Sanctified Act. “I did not think so many people lived around here.”

  “They do not,” said Amy, by way of explanation. “You can see by the small family tents and covered wagons spread all about that they have come from all around. Their fields have been plowed, but it is still too early to plant, as there might yet be a frost and all the seed would be lost. So it is a time for socializing, and this is one of the ways they do it.”

  All the young folks, the boys and girls, down there sparkin’, glancin’ about at each other, maybe bein’ so bold as to hold hands and to meet behind the tent, finally daring a kiss or two. Ah, yes, I know this scene quite well—as ancient as the world and as new as tomorrow.

  Where are our dear brothers?

  Oh, where are our dear sisters?

  They’re down here in the valley prayin’,

  And day is breakin in my soul.

  “And then in the fall, after the harvest, we will have the big County Fair, and the same sort of thing will go on.”

  “Well, Amy. You’ve got to get the boys and girls together. Otherwise, ever
ything grinds to a halt. Is it not so?”

  “I suppose. The world must go on, in its sometimes tedious way.”

  “It is not all that bad, Sister Melancholy, as the world does have its charms,” I say. “Come, Sister, let us get closer.”

  Oh, where are our dear fathers?

  And where are our dear mothers?

  They’ve gone to heaven shouting,

  And day is breaking in my soul.

  We ride down amidst the outlying wagons and buggies as that great old chestnut of a hymn winds down, and pull up at the fringe of the crowd. I take my long glass from my saddlebag and train it on the stage. It is about four feet high, twenty feet wide, ten deep, and has a backdrop of red curtains, which are closed. There is a short stairway up the center. Hmmm . . . This is quite a production for this sort of thing, I’m thinking. These revivals can be, and usually are, as simple as a preacher standing up in the back of a buckboard, with the crowd standing about him.

  The stage holds a high lectern and two preachers, each in long frock coats and high white collars, who take turns standing at the podium to thump the Bible and harangue the congregation, which seems to thrive upon the verbal abuse being thrown at it. Arms wave in the air and shouts of Hallelujah! and Praise God! are heard, and some people have fainted. We are close enough now to hear snatches of what is being bellowed out by the larger of the two men of God.

  “ . . and cast out Satan, yes, cast him out, oh my brethren! Listen not to his forked tongue, nor to his honeyed words, words that may sound sweet but are covered with flies and maggots, words that will condemn you to eternal damnation should you heed them!”

  “He’s pretty good,” I observe. “Giving ’em their money’s worth, that’s for sure.”

  “Humph,” says Amy.