Boston Jacky

by L. A. Meyer

  “It seems the cultural tone of our fair city has just gone up a notch,” says Ezra Pickering.

  I decide to ignore the dryness in his tone and continue.

  “After that, we have more ambitious plans in train . . .”

  “We . . . ?”

  “Messrs. Fennell and Bean are, of course, ­very excited at the notion of our own theater. The dear old hams could scarce contain themselves,” I say. “‘Oh, my dear Mr. Fennell, will it not be the most wonderful thing!’” I mimic. “‘Oh, yes, Mr. Bean, it shall outshine the venerable Globe Theatre itself! We shall do Volpone, Lear . . . Oh, yes, and Herr Mozart’s Abduction from the Seraglio! The possibilities are endless!’”

  “One can never fault that pair of thespians for lack of enthusiasm, that’s for sure.”

  “True, and I have a few projects in mind, as well.”

  “Ummm. And who is in charge of this modest project?”

  “Ephraim Fyffe, a fine furniture maker and husband of my dear friend Betsey, is the foreman, and I trust him absolutely.”

  Ezra regards me silently for a moment and then says, “You know, Jacky, I have observed that you are very good at making money . . . garnering riches . . . improving your state, as it were. Remarkable, considering that you are a lone, underage female.”

  “I have been very lucky,” I say with a sniff. “God looks out for the very young and the very stupid, as the saying goes.”

  I know that both of us are thinking of the enormous fortune of gold I had brought up from the wreck of the Santa Magdalena, a Spanish treasure galleon sunk off Key West in the Caribbean, most of which I had turned over to the British Crown, but a good deal of which I redirected into the coffers of Faber Shipping.

  Another musing hmmm from Ezra before he goes on.

  “I have further observed that you are even better at spending the money you have collected. For instance, there is the purchase of the Lorelei Lee, the new office headquarters . . . the fact that Mr. Higgins has a fine house in Cambridge, as do David and Annie Jones on Cornwell Street. Jemimah Moses continues to buy her children and grandchildren out of slavery. John Tinker is thinking of a ship of his own, and Jim Tanner and Clementine . . . well, the list is long. I, myself, am well fixed, too,” he says, touching the jeweled stickpin adorning his silk cravat, a token of that little trip to the waters off Key West.

  “I believe in rewarding my friends,” I say, “whom I find very valuable.”

  “Be that as it may, Miss, I must report that there is a bottom to the Faber Shipping barrel. And now with the purchase of the Pig . . .”

  “The Pig shall pay his way, I assure you.”

  “I am sure of that,” says Ezra, “but I beg you to consider putting an end to expenditures and a moratorium on any more hires.”

  “All right, Ezra,” I say, wearily. “Consider it done . . . What else?”

  “May I point out a few things under expenditures?”

  “Please do,” I say, sitting back, a mite grumpy.

  “First, you’ll note the sum of fifty dollars given to Domingo Marin, Spanish sailor, as promised by a note from you, yourself.”

  “Wot? I never met the lyin’ sod and I never promised him nothin’!”

  “Oh, you’ve never met him, but he did deliver.” With that, Ezra reaches down and pulls up a very worn green glass bottle and places it on the desk. “Does ‘Message in a Bottle’ ring a bell?”

  I recognize it instantly—it is the bottle from the Bloodhound—from that time we, the kidnapped and probably doomed girls of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls, all crouched about each other in the gloomy Pit, had penciled little notes to our parents or loved ones on what little paper we had on hand. I then rolled them all up and stuffed them in the bottle, with instructions to the finder on top. We pounded in the cork good and tight, covered the top in candle wax, and then I snuck out and dropped it overboard and into the drink with all our best wishes.

  “You can well imagine the tearful reading of those poignant notes when the families were gathered about to hear them read. Yes, there were grateful tears all around. Except for Clarissa Howe’s—I hear her request asking her father that she be present at the hanging of Bartholomew Simon was granted. Tears were shed at that occasion, I’m sure, but you may be assured they were only those of that very regretful slaver, and not those of our Miss Howe. I am sure it gave the wretched man an added dose of pain to see her smiling down below, the tables being indeed well turned,” concludes Ezra.

  “You, of course, were off at sea. Here is your note.”

  He hands me the folded piece of paper. It is a bit water stained, but it is remarkably intact. I unfold and read:

  Dear Jaimy,

  Remember that girl you said you liked and wanted to marry but you thought was drowned in a boat accident? Well, she didn’t. I’m still alive and kicking at this time. If you get this without seeing me, though, you’ll know our plan of escape failed and I am either passed on or am in some sultan’s harem, dressed in veils and baggy pants and smoking a hookah.

  Ha-ha. Just kidding. Really, Jaimy, if I don’t come back, I hope you have a happy life and will think of me sometimes, fondly. I am, your girl always,

  Jacky

  I carefully fold the note and put it in my bodice. “I shall read it to him when next we meet,” I say, brushing away a tear.

  “I wish you both the joy of that happy occasion,” says Ezra, collecting his papers and putting them in order. “Now, what do you intend to do with the rest of this fine day?”

  I stand and say, “I am going to see one Arthur McBride up in the Fourth Ward and find out what the rascal is up to. Then Amy Trevelyne and I are off to Dovecote for several days. Pity you cannot join us. I know Amy will not be pleased, even if she will not show it.”

  “Alas,” he says, also rising, “but duty calls and I am due in court in the morning.”

  “Then I bid you adieu, Ezra,” I say. “And thank you for all you do for me. We shall see you upon our return.”

  “I look forward to that time, Miss,” say Ezra, a smile playing across his face. “But I must tell you one more thing . . .”

  “And that is?” I ask. Surely there cannot be any more surprises in this day.

  “In regards to this Arthur McBride you are going to see . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “If you remember the financial statement I gave you, the one you barely scanned?”

  I don’t bother to respond, but only give him a level look.

  “Under miscellaneous expenditures I put three hundred dollars for fire prevention and insurance . . .”

  “And . . .”

  “That was to buy Arthur McBride and his Shamrock Hose, Ladder, and Pump Company his water wagon, pump, and two horses to haul it all.”

  “WHAT!”

  “I thought it wise, and I believe you will, too, Jacky, as things play out,” says Ezra. “Things are going to get very hot around here, Miss, no mistake about that.”

  Chapter 4

  “So, boyo, you have set yourself up as a respectable man of business, I hear,” I say as I stroll into the side yard of Number 18 Middle Street, wherein sits a highly polished copper-bound cylindrical tank set on a four-wheel carriage. Standing at its side, a gleaming brass hat on his head and shiny speaking trumpet in his hand, is none other than Arthur McBride, late of County Wexford, Ireland, and a former crew member of both my Emerald and my Lorelei Lee. He is a seasoned sailor as well as a complete rascal, but I must admit I feel a certain deep affection for the merry rogue. He has always brought me cheer, that’s for sure.

  “Jacky! My own true love!” he exults, spreading wide his arms and smiling the old McBridian grin—he has a slight gap between his two front teeth, which gives him the look of a rather impish leprechaun. “Praise Saint Patrick, Saint Brendan, and all the lesser saints! Your lovely self is back! Come give your Arthur McBride a kiss!”

  Laughing, I let myself be folded into his arms, but the kiss he aim
s at my lips I take on my cheek.

  “Enough of that, Arthur,” I say, freeing myself from his grasp. Several of his lads stand about, polishing brass and plainly enjoying the exchange.

  “Boys!” he shouts. “This is the renowned Jacky Faber, famous in legend and song, here to lend us her grace and charm that we might be happy and blessed in her reflected glory for a while up on this earth!”

  They hoot and applaud, and I give a sheepish low curtsy in return. The lad does have a way with words.

  “Now, Jacky,” he says, taking my left hand and gazing upon it, “I am glad to see no wedding ring resting on that fair finger. Does that mean you are still fair game, then? In the way of seduction, I mean?”

  “I know what you mean, Arthur McBride, you dog, but you shall have none of me nor any of my rather dubious charms for I am still promised to one James Emerson Fletcher, with whom, I believe, you are acquainted? Hmmm?”

  He frowns. “Him again. Should’ve coldcocked him and thrown him overboard back on that cursed Cerberus when I had the chance.”

  “I heard a rather different story, boyo, somethin’ about a bare-knuckle fight over who’d be captain of that ship after the mutiny? Hmmm?”

  “Awright, so he won that one, and more power to ’im, as it was a fair fight. So where is Mr. Fletcher now?”

  “He was in Burma, but he might be back here soon.”

  “Worse luck.” Arthur sighs. “But anyway, come in, love, and let me show you our fine firehouse.”

  As we go to enter the building, I notice a cut-out wooden shamrock, painted green, next to a shingle that proclaims, rather crudely, The Shamrock Hose, Ladder & Pump Co. I put my forefinger on the shamrock and ask, “What’s this, then?”

  “That,” he says, opening the door for me, “is the sign we put on the front of every building that is under our kind protection. It says to all that we will protect that dwelling or business with our very lives, and—”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And to warn the other bastards away from promisin’ the same thing,” he says, no longer smiling quite as wide.

  We go inside. There is a table with chairs along the side, some cabinets, a kitchen area with sink, and a rack running along the back wall with glistening copper helmets hanging thereupon. In the center, curiously, there is a shiny metal pole extending up into a large hole in the ceiling, through which it disappears into the gloom.

  “Ain’t it just the finest thing? The lads have their bunks up there, and when we hear the alarm bell, we slide down the pole and we’re off like a flash to do our duty. The horses are harnessed and ready to go at any time, and I swear the brutes love the smell of a fire.”

  He pulls out a chair and I put myself in it. I notice a steaming kettle of tea resting on the stove.

  “Yes, Arthur, it seems you have set yourself up very well,” I say with a certain edge to my voice, “considering it was on my dime that you did it.”

  “Ah, my love, you shall not regret the investment, as all your property and your own dear self shall be under my protection.”

  “Ummm,” I murmur doubtfully. “And how’s your love life, Mr. Fire Chief McBride?” I ask, sniffing at the air in the place.

  “What?” he replies, seemingly mystified. “You know you are the only girl who walks this earth that I want, dear. I worship the very ground on which you walk; I bless the grass that bends beneath thy dainty foot.”

  “Right.” I snort in disbelief and then raise my voice. “You, girl! Up there! Come down and get your guest a cup of tea. I know from old acquaintance that this here Arthur McBride has the manners of a rabid badger, but are ye poured from the same mold?”

  There is a flutter of skirts and a young girl comes sliding down the pole, legs wrapped below, hands on the shiny surface above. When she lands, she tries a small curtsy.

  “This is Molly,” says McBride, a bit sheepishly. “Molly, this is the renowned Miss Jacky Faber, famous in legend and song.”

  “Yer servant, mum,” she mumbles. She is a smallish girl, pretty, with auburn curls falling about her freckled face.

  “Is that Mrs. Molly McBride, then?” I ask, knowing the answer.

  “No, Miss, it’s just Molly Malone,” she says, going to fetch the tea. “He has not yet made an honest woman of me.” She gives Arthur a level glance on that.

  “Ah, and so the world goes, Molly,” I say in sympathy. “The boys always get their way, don’t they?”

  She smiles and gives me a wink that somehow says, And sometimes we get our way, don’t we? Saucy girl, I’m thinkin’.

  “How did you know she was up there?” asks Arthur.

  “One, I know you for a randy dog who can’t keep his business tucked in his pants. And number two, I have a nose and I can smell perfume. Jasmine, is it? Ah, yes, you would have brought back a good stock of that from the Far East, wouldn’t you, Arthur, so’s you could lay waste to the female hearts of Boston. And on my own dear Lorelei Lee, no doubt?” When I am around the Irish, I cannot help but fall into their musical way of talkin’.

  He gives a helpless shrug. “The ladies, they have their demands on poor Arthur McBride. I am but putty in their lovely hands.”

  “Enough with the blarney,” I say, putting my nose into the teacup Molly has set before me. “How come you’re not on the Lorelei Lee with the decent lads?”

  “Och. Liam Delaney, the captain of your fine ship, cannot stand the sight of me, and I ain’t got much use for him, neither. He thinks I was the one what caused Mairead, Ian, and the rest of the lot to be sent off to Botany Bay. Not true, but there’s no talkin’ to the man. So here he is, poor Arthur McBride, cast ashore in a strange land, but still, captain of his own brave company o’ stalwarts, for all that.”

  “Can’t say I blame him,” I says. “I’d have thrown you off, too. But now tell me of these ‘other bastards’ to which you refer.”

  “Well, there’s two other companies. That fat pig Tooley’s so-called Free Men’s down at Skivareen’s. He’s got two pump wagons, a whole bunch o’ uglies, and the Constable on his payroll.”

  “I know all about that lump o’ rancid lard—he and I go way back. Don’t worry, I’ll settle his greasy hash, count on it.”

  “And there’s Captain Bluenose Warren and his crew of locals. The Sons of Boston, they call themselves, resentful of anyone what ain’t come over on the bleedin’ Mayflower. They’ve got the rich nobs on their side, they do, and that gang o’ harpies in the Boston Army for Women’s Suffrage ain’t got no use for us fine Irish lads, neither.”

  Just then, the door flies open and a man yells, “Captain! The call! It’s over on Beacon Street!”

  McBride is up on his feet and out the door. From outside, I can hear the faint clang of a bell ringing down in the town . . . clang, clang, clang . . . clang, clang, clang . . . repeated over and over.

  “It’s our signal!” exclaims Molly, as she, too, runs out the door. “One of ours is burnin’!”

  I follow her outside and find that the horses are already in harness and the men are clambering aboard running boards that are attached to the sides. Arthur McBride is on the high seat up forward with the reins in his hand, a helmeted man to either side of him, ready to go. There are ladders hung along the length of the pump wagon on each side, and to the one nearest me I go, seeing that there is no more room on the running boards.

  I put my foot on it and pull myself up and clamber over the tank and straddle it, right behind the filler. Seeing Molly below, I reach down a hand, she grabs it, and I pull her up behind me.

  “Hang on, Molly Malone!” I shout as the gate is opened and we charge out, our own bell clanging furiously.

  We charge down Middle Street, then careen onto Hanover, up on two wheels on that turn, then down Sudbury and on to Tremont Street, and then finally to Beacon. We thunder down past Hancock Street, and then past—oh, my!—the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls, looming up all grand to our right. Dimly, I perceive faces at the window as we
roar past, intent on our mission.

  Uh-oh . . .

  Rattling past the school, we can see, up ahead, a thin plume of black smoke snaking up to the sky.

  “There it is, boys,” shouts Arthur McBride. “It’s on Charles Street! Swing her right!”

  The wagon veers around the corner and pulls up in front of a freestanding cottage, from the top windows of which issue great columns of smoke.

  “Get up some pressure!” calls Arthur, and four men start on the pump and soon the hose starts to swell. “Ladders! Against the side! Up to that window!”

  He points to an open window on the second story and as he does, a woman’s face appears, contorted in great terror. She clutches a small girl to her breast.

  I swing my leg over the side and head for the door on the ground floor.

  “We gotta get ’em out!” I shout.

  “No, Jacky! Stop! We’ll get ’em with the ladder! Stand back! Don’t open that door! Let us do it!”

  I step back as the Shamrock Company’s hose begins to pour great gouts of water through a window close to the distraught woman’s side. Arthur McBride is the first one up the ladder, and he takes the child in his arms and hands her squalling form down to another man. Then he reaches for the mother and hauls her out. She is overcome with the smoke and gasping and unable to speak, but her child, below her on the ladder, cries, “Josie’s still in there! She ran down the stairs!”

  Oh, God, no! There’s another poor soul in there!

  The bottom of the stairs can only be through that door, and through that door I plunge. I find myself in a smoke-filled hallway with a kitchen to the left and . . . There! That must be the door to the stairway to the upper floor!

  I pull up the front of my skirt to cover my nose and mouth against the choking smoke and lunge for the door handle. Jerking it open, I feel a great roaring wind about me.

  There at the foot of the bottom step lies Josie, all white and not moving. I grab her by the scruff of her neck and haul her out, slamming the door and shutting off that hellish backdraft. That’s why Arthur didn’t want me to open the door—it acted like the open flue on a furnace! Damn!