The Mark of the Golden Dragon

by L. A. Meyer

  This bit of hilarity is met with gales of laughter from his cronies... Good one, Grimbo! ...and the middle-sized one makes so bold as to come up to me and knock off me cap, exposing my head.

  Cor! Look at that! Blimey!

  After they recover from the sight, the little one puts his fingers to either side of his eyes and pulls them into slits and starts singsonging...

  Ching Chong Chinaman, sittin on a fence

  Ching Chong Chinaman—

  That's as far as he gets with that little number, as I bring up the toe of my right foot and sink it deep in his crotch. He goes "Ooof!" and doubles over, puking out whatever foulness is in his gut.

  I whip out my shiv from my sleeve and get into a crouch, holding the blade up in front of me face.

  "Shankies!" I say, and spit on the cobblestones. "Shankies? In-tro-duck-shuns ain't over yet, oh, no, you miserable scum wads! My name was Mary Faber when I ran these streets with the Rooster Charlie Gang and I was killin' Shankies for sport whilst you was still suckin' on yer mama's filthy teats. See the dried blood on the hilt of me shiv? Aye, that was prolly yer dead daddy's poxy blood that's there, and now yours'll run there, too, you poor excuses for honest footpads! Come on, I'll cut off yer cods and stuff 'em in yer mouths! Come on and git it, you lousy pieces o'—"

  They back off a bit, startled by the display and the rant. They no longer look quite so confident of an easy mark.

  Thanks, Mike Fink, King of the River—I learned the value of a good brag from you.

  "All right, what's this, then?" asks a voice to my right.

  I twist around, my knife still at the ready, with one eye on the Shankies and the other one on a tall bloke who has appeared with two girls by him, one on either side. He wears a top hat in the current style, and coat and vest, once fine but now a bit threadbare. One girl looks to be thirteen or so, the other a mite older.

  "I'm about to gut me a coupla worthless thugs," I say, panting—the blood is up in me now, for sure. "If'n yer sickened by the sight o' blood, ye'd best step off, as it's about to flow!"

  The bloke smiles and says, "Did I just hear you call yourself Mary Faber of the Rooster Charlie Gang?"

  "I did. What's it to you, bunghole?"

  "Welcome back, Mary."

  What?

  "It's Toby ... Toby Oyster, Mary," he says, the smile broadening. "Come on back to the clubhouse and let's talk."

  Toby Oyster, the bloke I left in charge of the remnants of my gang when I lit out for the open sea all those years ago. What a thing...

  With a careful eye on Grimbo and his pals, I shove my shiv back in my sheath and slap my hat back on my head and follow Toby and his crew up Paternoster to their kip, the same hole of a condemned building that I last saw when our gang fought Pigger O'Toole and his boys outside this very place.

  We go in and seat ourselves about a long table. When no food or drink seems to be coming, I dig down into my money belt again and come up with a half crown, then signal to one of the girls who stand about Toby.

  "Here. What's your name?"

  "Gwen, Sir ... or Miss..."

  "It's Miss, Gwendolyn," I say, putting the coin into her paw. "Now, run up to that tavern on the corner and bring back all the bread, cheese, sausage, and wine that will buy." Her hand eagerly clasps the coin.

  "And, girl, if you had any thought about runnin' off, take a look at this." With that I remove my cap and whip my pigtail from off my neck. "See that? Yes ... That is the Mark of the Golden Dragon, and it is the sign of an organization much larger and much more cruel than any Brotherhood of Urchins. If you want to end your days screaming your life out in a tub of boiling oil, you will ignore my warning." I say that for her benefit, and for all the others gathered about.

  She heeds it, and I think they do, too. In no time at all, she is back with the goods.

  "So, Toby," I say, leaning back in my chair. "Tell me just how I come to be sitting here, talkin' pleasant to a bunch of lousy Shankies." I can hardly believe it myself. Back in the day, the Shankies were our mortal enemies, and here I sit in their kip. I knock back a hit of not-too-bad wine from a not-too-dirty cup and ask, "I heard from Joannie Nichols that you were taken by a press gang. True?"

  Toby nods grimly. I notice that he has actually become a good-looking young man—tall, straight, dark-haired, with only a scar across his left eye to mar his face.

  "Too true, too true," he responds, ruefully. "Right after Hugh the Grand was taken, so was I. Damn stupid of me to let it happen, but it did. Prolly had me senses too full of Polly to watch out proper. Anyway, I was taken aboard the Temeraire and spent three miserable years in that hellhole and was almost killed at Trafalgar. But I made it through and jumped ship as soon as we were in sight of England. I came back here and convinced the lad in charge o' the Shankies that he should move on—the goddamn Royal Navy didn't do much for me, but it did teach me some fightin' skills which 'ave come in real handy."

  "The Temeraire, eh? I got a mate on that ship," I say. "William Simpson ... Ever hear of him?"

  Toby laughs. "Hear o' him? He's the bloody Bo'sun's Mate what put this mark upon me brow!" Toby takes another drink and goes on. "But he weren't such a bad sort after all—we had a big roaring fight and he kicked the pure crap outta me, but he didn't write me up afterwards, so I didn't get tied to the grating and flogged. No, ol' Willy was all right, he was..."

  A bit of silence, then...

  "So you heard from Joannie ... She's all right?"

  I nod.

  "Good. She was a good kid ... And my Polly? Did you hear anything o' her? I fear that she ended up in some whorehouse, without me being 'round to protect her. I checked 'round when I got back, but found nothin' o' her."

  I know this hurts him to talk of her, but it would hurt him even more to know that she's right now snugged up with Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne, USMC, a rich young man back in Boston, so I don't tell him that. Instead I say, "Joannie heard that she went north with a company of actors and was doing quite well as an actress."

  His face lights up.

  "Ah, Pretty Polly, my dear, dear, sweet shining girl. I am so glad to hear that!"

  Good. Maybe he will sleep easier now with that little falsehood to soothe his mind.

  And now ... it is time to go.

  I stand and say, "Thank you for your hospitality, Toby—all of you—but I must be off. Here..."

  I dig another of Chopstick Charlie's coins from my money belt and put it on the table and say, "Have another feed on me, mates. Never let it be said that Jacky Faber did not stand 'er mates to a treat when she 'ad some jingle in 'er pocket."

  Toby walks me out to the street.

  "If I need some help, Toby," I say. "Of maybe an irregular nature..."

  He chuckles and presses something in my palm. I look at it and I see a small wooden disk on which is inscribed a black "S."

  "For sure, Mary, anytime you need help, or a place to kip, you got it. And what you got in your hand guarantees safe passage through Cheapside. At least from my coves, if not the coppers."

  I plant a kiss of thanks upon his cheek as he says with a laugh, "You Chinks got your signs, we got ours."

  When I get up on Newgate, I flag down a hackney cab, flash a coin, and say, "Nine Brattle Street, if you please ..."

  Chapter 26

  The hack drops me at the end of Brattle Street, and yes, I have been here before, standing in the street, looking up at Jaimy's childhood home.

  The first time, I was thrown out on my ear by Jaimy's mother, who I am sure still has no use for me. The second time, poor Jaimy was wounded most grievously and did not even know me. The third time, I was ripped away from his side and sent as a spy to France.

  I ask the cabbie to wait, then I approach the door with both caution and great trepidation. I take a deep breath and grasp the knocker and give it three sharp raps. Yes, I could have come to this place first, but I was afraid—afraid of what I would find, afraid of how I would be received.

&
nbsp; Presently the door opens and a girl in a mob cap peeks out. A maid, no doubt.

  "Yes?"

  "Your pardon, Miss," I say, popping off a snappy naval salute. "But I 'ave here a letter for a Mr. James Fletcher. Is the gentleman at 'ome?"

  "Please wait."

  The door closes and I cool my heels for a while. I think I hear whispering inside. Hmmmm.

  The door opens again and a young woman—a girl, actually, of about sixteen years—stands there. She is finely, but not ostentatiously, dressed in a mauve-gray dress with white trim. Plainly not another servant, and very plainly not Jaimy's mother, either. She is very pretty, with dark curls bound up with a blue velvet ribbon. Jaimy, could you already have another girl?

  "I am sorry, boy, but my brother James is away. You may give me the letter and I will give it to him if we ... when we see him again."

  Oh. Jaimy did mention that he had sisters...

  "I'm sorry, Miss," I say. "But me orders are to hand it to 'im personal like. Can you tell me if the gent is at 'is club?"

  "No, I don't think he—"

  "What's this, then, Elizabeth?"

  The girl moves aside and there stands the old dragon herself—Jaimy's mother—glowering down upon me.

  "The lad has a letter for Jaimy, Mother. I told him—"

  "I hope you told him nothing. If I did not rejoice in the fact that the little witch was dead and gone, thank God, I would wager that it was from that guttersnipe Faber."

  Uh-oh...

  "Begone, boy! We do not discuss my son's affairs with strangers. As if we did not have enough trouble already. Go, I say!"

  The door closes and I walk disconsolately back to the cab and crawl in.

  I'm really not that disappointed ... I really didn't expect to find him here ... not really... sniff... But trouble? What trouble?

  "Where to, boy?" asks the cabbie.

  I compose myself and say, "The Royal College of Surgeons in Lincoln Inn Fields, if you please."

  He clucks at his horse, gives the poor beast a light tap with his whip, and we are off.

  Maybe Dr. Sebastian will know of Jaimy's whereabouts. He is a member of Naval Intelligence, after all.

  I stand in the street, looking up at 42 Chancery Lane. I was not surprised to learn that the good doctor's house was not far from the College of Surgeons. I had inquired there and was directed to this spot not two blocks away.

  Reaching into my kit bag, I pull out a small, flat sandalwood box and advance to the door with it under my arm. I knock once ... twice ... and before I can rap three times, the door flies open and three children stand there looking up at me.

  "Uh ... could you please tell Dr. Sebastian that there is a messenger at the door and—"

  "Mama!" screams the middle-sized child, a girl it seems. "There's a sailor boy here for Papa!"

  A somewhat harried-looking woman of about thirty years, trim and quite handsome, appears with an inquiring look on her face.

  "Yes?"

  "Pardon, Mum," I says, all respectful. "But would you please give this box to Dr. Sebastian? Tell 'im it's from a friend lately come from the South China Sea."

  She nods and takes the box and says, "Come in, lad, and I will take it to him."

  I step into the foyer and watch her retreating back. Naval etiquette orders that one uncovers when one goes inside, so I slip off my cap. I am rewarded by gasps from the three big-eyed kids. I think I might have won over this particular audience.

  "Lord, look at that!"

  "What is he?"

  "A Hottentot! For sure!"

  "Oh, our Papa has had such great adventures!"

  I hear hurried footsteps coming down the hall. I didn't think it would take long. In the box were several perfectly preserved butterflies from Burma and several more from India. In there, as well, were carefully detailed watercolor renditions of other specimens, signed with a simple JMF penned in the corner of each.

  The hall door flies open and there stands Dr. Stephen Sebastian, box in hand, mouth agape at the sight of me.

  "J-Jacky! But we thought that—"

  "That I was condemned for life to Australia? That I was dead? Neither one of those, you see, has turned out to be true. But what is true, dear Doctor, is that I have been halfway around the world, and oh, what wonders I have seen! And many's the time I wished to have you there beside me as we explored the natural wonders of the East. It is to be hoped that someday we shall do that but..."

  I am beginning to tear up, but I push on.

  "...but right now I so desperately need your help. I need to get in touch with whoever might be friendly to me in the Admiralty ... in the Intelligence Division. I have a proposition from an important man of business in the Far East, one that will benefit the Crown to a great degree in the way of treasure and the British Museum in the way of fantastic artifacts of the Orient. I might even have a way into the China trade ... or even Japan ... and, oh, Doctor, I need to find out where is my Jaimy Fletcher..."

  "Come, come, my dear, let us go into my laboratory," he says, putting a welcome arm across my shoulders, "where we may talk. Amanda! Some refreshments, if you would!"

  He and I are settled in the Doctor's lab, with dried specimens hanging all about us, and ongoing dissections-in-progress laid out on tables. His wife brings in a tray bearing a beaker of wine and some cakes and cheese, and I thank her and then we get down to it.

  First I give him an account of my travels and travails since I last left England's shore. Then I put Chopstick Charlie's proposal to him—great treasure in exchange for his being made Britannia's chief factotum in the Far East. As I'm telling him about that, I reach in my bag and pull out an object I had brought with me for just this moment.

  "Good Lord," he says, holding it up and letting the light from the window shine upon it. "What is it?"

  "It is a chalice fashioned out of pure gold. Those are real diamonds and emeralds encrusted on the sides. Do not worry, I will not claim it to be the Holy Grail, as it came from Rangoon, but it is still very valuable. And there is much more in the hold of my ship."

  "Indeed," he says, thinking. "However, I must tell you that I, and my associates, are currently out of favor at the Admiralty."

  "I suspected as much when I heard that Baron Mulgrave was still First Lord."

  "But he is not the chief problem. It is those who surround him."

  "Mr. Peel?"

  "Also banished from power. Mr. Higgins?"

  "He is back with me and is off conducting ... discreet inquiries."

  "Good. Valuable man."

  He settles back, deep in thought.

  "Hmmm ... Something might be done ... We'll see," he says. "But what will you want from all this, aside from the eternal gratitude of your native land?"

  "Not much," I say, folding my hands in my lap. "The Lorelei Lee restored to Faber Shipping Worldwide—we already have her back in our possession, so it would be a simple matter of a mere signature on a piece of paper—and a full pardon for me. I do have a pardon signed by Captain Bligh of the New South Wales colony in return for Services Rendered..."

  "Sure to be an excellent forgery, if I know you," he says with a smile. "What else?"

  "Pardons for all my men, and a full pardon as well for my own Lieutenant James Emerson Fletcher, and his restoration as an officer in the Royal Navy."

  "Hmmm..." he says. "That might be a bit of a problem."

  "Why's that?" I ask.

  "Because it appears that Lieutenant James Fletcher has recently murdered Special Agent Bliffil of the very Intelligence Branch in which we will wish to curry favor."

  Oh, Lord, Jaimy...

  Chapter 27

  I'm up on Whitehall, watching the Horse Guards parade by, and I must admit they look glorious astride their high-stepping horses. They wear shiny metal breastplates over their deep blue jackets with red and gold striping, high collars, white britches, black boots that come up over the knee, white sash across the chest, and all this is topped off
by silver helmets with brass trim and a big black plume on top. But they ain't what I'm here for. Nay, I'm looking for the First Dragoons, and one dragoon in particular...

  Earlier in the day, after I had recovered from my shock at the news of the death of Bliffil at Jaimy's hands, Dr. Sebastian and I got down to it.

  "How did it happen, Doctor?"

  "Apparently, while on an East India vessel named Cerberus on the way to New South Wales to begin his sentence, Mr. Fletcher managed to incite the crew to mutiny and take over the ship and—"

  "Yes, yes, I know all about that. What happened later?"

  "Well, as I hear it from contacts I still have at the Admiralty, HMS Dart regained control of the Cerberus in the Bay of Bengal and brought it back to England, intact, but without Mr. Fletcher as prisoner, as one would expect. It seems that when the ship neared Plymouth, Fletcher was able to make his escape, very well armed, as it turned out, and in possession of some money..."

  Thanks, Joseph...

  "The details of that are sketchy, but suffice to say that the fugitive purchased a good horse and made his way to London with vengeance on his mind. It is plain that he blamed the agents Bliffil and Flashby for both your death and his wrongful incarceration, and he intended to make restitution in kind."

  "True enough, that. I will shed no tears over Bliffil. May the demons down in Hell scar him as he has scarred me."

  "Yes, well, by day your Mr. Fletcher hung around low dives, brothels, inns frequented by soldiers and sailors and ... intelligence agents. He let his beard grow, donned an eye-patch as disguise, and cloaked himself in a heavy black coat. He dresses all in black—black jacket, black boots, black britches, and coal-black lace at his throat and cuffs—and they call him the Black Highwayman. He was a fearsome sight on a moonlit night on Blackheath, I should imagine, with the cloak flying out behind him like the wing of a giant bat, and two gleaming pistols drawn and pointed at his victims."