Boston Jacky

by L. A. Meyer

  She smiles at the notion, probably thinking of the dance she performed on the deck of that ship as a diversion during our attempt at escape—a diversion that worked extremely well—a dance that would have made that Salome of the Seven Veils proud.

  “Would you have to place your mouth on mine again? I still shudder to think back on that. Disgusting.”

  “’Fraid so, Clarissa. Amy has already written that in. But I promise to suck on a lot of peppermints just before that awful moment so you won’t be offended overmuch.”

  She does not reply.

  “Let us go have lunch. It should be ready,” I say, and then call up to the stage, “Amy! Come dine with us. Soon it will be time for your graduation!” Amy, clipboard in hand, with several pencils shoved up into her hair, nods, says something to the Director, then joins us as we go back to the Pig to sample whatever delicious things Jemimah has prepared for us.

  We bail out of the coach in front of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls and go in for the ceremony, all of us dressed in our black school uniforms.

  I had actually intended to wear something a bit more elegant for Amy’s graduation, but, as we finished up our lunch, Clarissa had patted her perfect lips with her napkin, then said, “What you are wearing suits you”—I was still in my serving-girl rig, my usual working clothes when on land—“but go climb into your school dress. If we have to wear these awful things, so do you.” I did it, but found it curious that she should demand that of me.

  There are hugs and kisses all around, introductions to parents and siblings, much bowing and curtsying, and general gaiety. Amy’s parents arrive at the last minute and are seated next to the Comte de Lise. Ezra, of course, is here, beaming at what he hopes will someday be his wife. Funny, I don’t see General Howe. Hmmm . . . Eventually, we go to our assigned places in the dining hall, and the graduation ceremonies begin.

  A chorus of the undergraduate girls, led by Maestro Fracelli, does an excellent job of the “Gaudeamus Igitur,” sung in Latin, a song often used in graduations, even though Mr. Fracelli had told us it was originally a college-student drinking song. Seems to fit, though.

  Gaudeamus igitur,

  Juvenes dum sumus;

  Post jucundum juventutem,

  Post molestam senectutem

  Nos habebit humus.

  It is a rousing tune, although the lyrics are a bit sobering, saying, essentially, Let us rejoice when we are young, but after a pleasant youth and a troublesome old age, the earth will eventually have us. Right in line with these dour Puritans, I figure . . . Memento Mori and all that. But, hey, how many of us know Latin, so sing on, I say.

  The Chorus swings into another verse . . .

  Vivat academia,

  Vivant professores,

  Vivat membrum quod libet,

  Vivant membra quae libet;

  Semper sint in flore.

  This verse extols the school, the teachers, and the students—may they all flourish! I’m for that.

  I have Joannie Nichols seated to my left, along with several other girls who do not have family here today. Joannie is fairly jumping out of her skin in her excitement at the prospect of getting out of school for the summer and coming back to live with me—and maybe going for a bit of a cruise on the Nancy B. That may happen sooner than you think, Joannie . . . I meet with Ezra again tomorrow and I know he is not at all happy with the financial condition of Faber Shipping Worldwide.

  And, to my right, I am astonished to find Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe. I figure I have seen more of her in the last few hours than I have in years, and I had expected her to be front row, center.

  “What brings you to the Orphan Bench, Sister?” I ask of her.

  “Daddy and I are not speaking,” she says, nose in the air. “And Mother is in a bit of a tizzy. They are both back in Virginia. They are not pleased with me.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I have decided not to marry John Randolph.”

  “But I thought—”

  “Who cares what you think. Hush, now. It is starting.”

  Indeed it is. Mistress goes to the podium and delivers a short speech concerning Learning, Godliness, and The Virtues of Young Womanhood. Then she announces, “Hermione Applegate.”

  The girl rises and goes to stand before Mistress. Hermione’s right hand reaches out to take Mistress’s hand, while her left hand, as rehearsed, passes over the other to take the rolled-up diploma. A kiss on Mistress’s cheek, a few words spoken, and the girl steps down and into the arms of her family as the next girl is announced, “Miss Helen Bailey . . .”

  And then, on and on . . . Miss Caroline Thwackham . . . Miss Abigail Pierce . . . Miss Ruth Alden . . . Miss Hyacinth Saltonstall . . .

  My dear sisters from the school and from the Bloodhound. I have to choke back a tear. I do not know why I am so emotional over such simple things, but I am, I am.

  Of course, not all of the Bloodhound Thirty-Two are here. Dolley is off and married to an important politician and has a child, even, and others have previously graduated as well . . . and then there were the three serving girls, Annie, Sylvie, and Katy.

  . . . Miss Beatrice Cooper . . . Mademoiselle Lissette de Lise . . . Miss Frances Wallace . . .

  I heave a bit of a sigh for Dorothea Baxter, who would have been graduating with the rest but went off last year and married our math and science teacher, Mr. Sackett. Both, of course, were immediately asked to leave the school—booted out is more likely the case. Mistress does have her rules, and that whole scene was definitely, to her mind, unseemly.

  Not that it would distress the newly married Sacketts much, as they are both deliriously happy with each other and their studies, not living on much except their enthusiasm for their scientific calling. They manage to pick up some tutoring jobs here and there, and Mr. Sackett is hopeful of a post at the college over in Cambridge. My fishing crews generally manage to give them a few fish or lobsters—we are all sure they carefully dissect the specimens before eating. I had found the couple living in very reduced circumstances in a hovel on Essex Street and have installed them in one of the apartments on the third floor of Faber Shipping, and they have already stunk up the place several times with noxious fumes from their laboratory. Good thing there’s generally a steady breeze from the ocean to clear things out. They sometimes manage to pay their rent . . . sometimes.

  . . . Miss Judith Leavitt . . . Miss Christina King . . . Miss Priscilla Cabot . . .

  I lean over and whisper to Clarissa, “It was so nice of you to come visit and to offer me a ride today, Clarissa. I really appreciated it.”

  She cuts me a glance and curls her lip. “Nice? I wasn’t being nice. Mistress ordered me to pick you up to make sure you showed up, properly dressed. Do you think I would have done it otherwise? Nice? Please, Jacky, spare me your niceties.”

  . . . Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe . . .

  A rustle of silk and Clarissa rises, to accept her diploma.

  Damn! Scammed again! But why would Mistress . . . ?

  . . . and finally, Miss Jacqueline Faber . . .

  I sit stunned. Wot? Me?

  Joannie nudges me to my feet, and, numbly, I march to the podium. I reach for Mistress’s hand, take it, then receive my diploma in my other hand. As I place a kiss on her cheek, she looks me in the eyes and says, “You were a trial to me, Miss Faber, and I think you will continue to be one. But now you will be someone else’s trial, as I have done what I can. Go on your way, Jacky.”

  I stumble back to my seat, overcome with emotion, the tears running down my cheeks. The chorus sings the last verse of “Gaudeamus Igitur” as a recessional. I know it has to do with standing up for your school, but my senses are reeling and I take not their meaning . . .

  Pereat tristitia,

  Pereant osores,

  Pereat diabolus

  Quivis antiburschius,

  Atque irrisores.

  I rise with the rest and clutch the rolled parchment to my ch
est as we file out of the Lawson Peabody for the last time. I do not have to read the words inscribed there, for I know what they say. They proclaim that I am now, officially . . .

  A lady.

  Chapter 8

  “I would not have thought it possible, Miss,” Ezra Pickering is saying as he sorts through the pile of papers on his desk, “for one person to go through so much money in so short a time. Actually, it rather boggles the mind . . .”

  I am seated in Ezra’s office, being scolded.

  “You brought back a virtual king’s ransom in gold and jewels from your diving adventure in the Caribbean, and yet you have managed to spend it all.” He picks up a paper and gazes at it. “The brigantine Lorelei Lee, fine cottages for your friends, the building housing the offices of Faber Shipping, employment for about fifty people, the usual bribes for city officials, the Pig and Whistle Inn, and finally, this Emerald Playhouse.”

  “The Lee will pay for herself, eventually . . .”

  “That may be true, Madame President, but she isn’t now, not with the trouble with the gangs. In fact, I strongly advise you, as your attorney, to stop the practice of shipping workmen of a Gaelic nature to Boston. This town is about to boil over with resentment against the Irish . . . and you.”

  “The fishing boats are making money . . .” I sniff. “And the Pig is open again, and the Playhouse will soon be selling tickets. In the Belly of the Bloodhound will be ready shortly, and choral groups are already signing up for dates . . . and then there is an opera company that wants to mount a production of Abduction from the Seraglio . . .”

  “Fine, a musical about an Oriental harem,” says Ezra. “It sounds like just the thing for bluenosed Boston, and I am sure it will endear you to the BAWS. But that would be revenue in the future, and we need money now.” He puts his finger on a thin stack of papers. “This is a listing of your assets, and this”—he puts another finger on a thicker pile of papers—“this is an accounting of what is owed to your creditors, who will shortly be howling for your blood.”

  “We’ll pay ’em. Just tell ’em to cool their heels a bit.”

  “They may not be in a mood to do that, Jacky,” says Ezra, giving me a level look. “You know there are still debtor prisons in this state. All it takes is a judge’s order and, remember, you are not one of Judge Thwackham’s favorite people. You will recall his suspended sentence of a dozen lashes of the rod handed down at your conviction for Lewd and Lascivious Conduct. That still hangs over your head, you know, should you appear in his court again.”

  “Well, we can continue to make the Caribbean runs on the Nancy B., hauling down granite to Jamaica and then carrying molasses back up for the rum distilleries in Boston. That will bring in some coin.”

  “Well, no, we cannot, not that easily.”

  “And why not?”

  “Well, for two reasons: Number one, Jamaica is an English port, and two, because of the Embargo Act. Surely you have heard of it.”

  “No, I have not, Ezra. How could I? You know I’ve been away, and not always in the best of circumstances,” I say testily. “So tell me about it. It does not sound like good news.”

  He twines his fingers before his face and rests his chin on his hands and says, “Well, right before Christmas in 1807, our President Jefferson signed into law an act forbidding all American shippers from trading with any country that also trades with Great Britain or France.”

  “That’s absurd!” I exclaim. “That will destroy my seagoing business! And most of America’s as well!”

  “That is true, Miss. Many American ships are rotting in harbors, unable to conduct trade.”

  “Well, mine shall not rot there, by God!” I announce, rising to my feet in righteous indignation.

  “Perhaps not, Jacky. But we must be careful. And do please be calm.”

  “How did this come about?” I ask, incredulous, but sitting myself back down in the chair.

  “How? Well might you ask,” says Ezra. “You see, things are heating up between the British Lion and the American Eagle. Surely you have heard of the Chesapeake–Leopard affair? No? Well, let me give you a quick summary. On the twenty-second of June, six months to the day before the Embargo Act, the British ship HMS Leopard accosted the USS Chesapeake, one of our fleet’s few powerful ships, for the purpose of boarding her to search for presumed British deserters. The Chesapeake’s captain, one James Barron, refused to allow it, whereupon the Leopard’s commander laid a shot across her bow. The Chesapeake, woefully unprepared, managed to get off only one shot in reply, whereas the Leopard discharged six broadsides into the Chesapeake . . .”

  Oh, Lord! Randall Trevelyne was on that ship! Please, God . . .

  “. . . killing three sailors and wounding eighteen. Captain Barron then struck his colors and gave up the ship.”

  “Shameful,” I say. “Shameful . . .”

  “That he should give up the ship?” asks Ezra, ever the landsman and not the man-of-war’s man.

  “No,” I say, sitting up straight. “I, myself, have struck my colors and surrendered two ships, and it was not an easy thing to do . . . but to get off only one shot, that is shameful.”

  “Umm . . .” says Ezra. “Anyway, the Embargo Act was passed, shutting off all U.S. commerce to Britain, France, or any of their ports and allies. Captain Barron was court-martialed and replaced by Stephen Decatur, and all the while our ships rot in their harbors.”

  I feel like I have been punched in the gut.

  “Enforcement of this embargo?” I ask, with raised eyebrows. Politicians will eventually make a full-time smuggler out of Jacky Faber, she who wishes only to be an honest merchantman.

  “Enforcement is spotty, and smugglers flourish. The mighty Chesapeake patrols the New England coast, ever vigilant for those who would ignore the edicts of Washington, DC.”

  “So I cannot even take the Nancy B. to Jamaica on a simple granite–molasses run? Liquid sugar to fuel the rum distilleries of Massachusetts?”

  “No, Miss, Jamaica is a British holding. And believe me, the rum factories are wailing over this.”

  “What about Cuba?”

  “The Spanish are now allies of the British. We can only conduct commerce with U.S. ports.”

  “Right. And what is the profit in that?” I ask, seething.

  “Well, there is New Orleans,” says Ezra, his small smile firmly in place. “It is now an American port.”

  “So what should I do? Go down there and pick up a cargo of slaves and gumbo?”

  “Actually, you could carry down a particular group of passengers, and bring a similar group back.”

  “Wot?” I ask, mystified.

  Ezra clasps his soft hands on his desk and gazes at me. “You know Mrs. Bodeen, do you not?”

  “Yes, of course. Hers is the most well-run brothel in Boston, and she has done me many a good turn in the past.”

  He holds up a check. “She has booked passage for ten of her . . . girls . . . from here to New Orleans, and passage on the return trip for ten others.”

  Hmmm . . . I knew from previous dealings with Mrs. Bodeen here in Boston and with her sister, Mrs. Babineau of the Rising Sun in New Orleans, that they liked to rotate their . . . stock . . . as it were, to insure freshness and variety for their customers.

  “Five hundred dollars, each way,” says Ezra, waving the check. “It won’t completely solve our financial problem, but it will help.”

  I have to smile at that. I once swore that the Lorelei Lee would never become a floating brothel, and look what happened there—over two hundred prostitutes carried from London to Botany Bay, plying their ancient trade the whole way. Perhaps it is now the Nancy B.’s turn.

  “We shall do it, Ezra, and we will leave tomorrow morning. Tell Mrs. Bodeen to have her girls packed and ready at Hallowell’s Wharf at nine o’clock,” I say, rising. “Thank you for all you do for me, Ezra.” Here I put on my open-mouthed, foxy grin and lean over him. “And how, Mr. Pickering, would thirty pounds
of pure gold help out the finances of Faber Shipping Worldwide? Hmmm?”

  It is now his turn to stare open-mouthed at me, then say, “Wot?”

  Chapter 9

  Mrs. Bodeen’s gaggle of girls is gathered on the dock, with all their considerable baggage, as we make our final preparations for getting underway. I have delayed boarding them till I have a final talk with my crew.

  “Listen up, all of you. We will be carrying a unique cargo to New Orleans and you all shall profit from it. However, there are rules. You shall have no congress of any kind with the cargo. Do you understand me?”

  There were several groans heard on that.

  “You men shall sling your hammocks outside, as it is warm enough, leaving the cabins to those below. The Nancy B. Alsop shall not become a whorehouse. Is that clear?”

  John Thomas and Finn McGee, better known as Smasher, manage to look like hurt puppies on that pronouncement, so I soften things up a bit.

  “Good. We shall visit at least three fine ports and liberty will be granted so you may have your fun there. As for now, Joannie, you may see the ladies to their berths, and Daniel, you may handle their baggage. Briskly, now, as the tide is ebbing. Jim Tanner, to your helm, Tink, John Thomas, and McGee to your lines.”

  Mrs. Bodeen’s ladies file up the gangway in a state of high spirits and gaiety. Most of them are very well known to Thomas and McGee, and many giggles are heard and winks are seen as they come aboard.

  It’s gonna be difficult, but I will have order on my ship, by God!

  David Jones is the last of the crew to board, and I do not have to lecture him, as I see, down on the dock, Annie Jones, my very good friend and wife to the rogue, reading him the riot act with clenched fist on hip and finger on his nose. He laughs, wraps her in his strong embrace, plants a goodbye kiss on her mouth, and then bounds aboard with a final salute.