Boston Jacky

by L. A. Meyer

  Since we have now arrived, Concepción is immediately sequestered with her bridesmaids, and Tink is handed off to his bachelors. Before they get up to too much devilment, I take Tink aside and press a diamond ring and a necklace with a golden cross into his hand.

  “Thanks, Tink, for being a good brother to me,” I say, misting up a bit. “She’s a fine girl, and I just know you’ll be very happy together.” I give him a kiss on his cheek.

  “The Brotherhood forever, Jacky,” is what he softly says in return, encircling me in his warm embrace. “Forever.”

  Several days ago, when the gold ingots had all been painted gray and stashed down below and we had hauled up the anchor and set sail for Havana, I called my crew to the quarterdeck, with the small chest under my arm. I did not have to call them twice.

  They ranged themselves about me as I sat cross-legged before the after mast with the waterlogged cask between my knees, all eyes gleaming with a certain avarice.

  “Now, mates,” I warned, “this thing could just contain some old papers, once important to someone, but now a mere sodden mess, and nothing more”—I picked up the chest and gave it a bit of a shake and it rattled—“but somehow I don’t think so.”

  Smiling my greedy, foxy grin, I applied my shiv to the latch and popped it open.

  Ah, yes!

  No soggy old love letters here, oh no, merely a mound of gold coins, loose jewels, and a good handful of bracelets and necklaces. There was a common gasp as I spread it all out before them.

  “Those are Spanish doubloons there, lads, and if I were to pass out a few of them, aye, you would have a fine time in the taverns,” I said. “But two-hundred-year-old coins would surely draw attention to us. The Dons consider any gold taken from the wrecks of the old treasure fleets to be theirs. Nay, lads, let Ezra Pickering fence those little lovelies, and rest assured, there will be a special bonus for all aboard.”

  I sensed a slight air of disappointment at this, and then went on . . .

  “However, I think we each deserve a bit of a treat for performing so well on this mission, so each of you take out a special token as a memento of this fine voyage.”

  Cheers all around on that.

  I reached in and snagged a good-sized emerald, always my favorite, and slid it next to me. I also pulled out a diamond ring and a plain gold cross on a beautifully turned necklace and set them aside. “For our missing member,” I said by way of explanation, and all nodded in agreement.

  Davy also chose a ring with a diamond set upon it, which I am positive will soon rest on the delighted finger of one Annie Jones. Jim Tanner took out a blue sapphire hair clasp, which I am sure he thinks will look just smashing on Clementine’s flaxen hair and matching her cornflower blue eyes, and I believe he is right.

  Joannie and Daniel Prescott each chose identical thick gold rings, which they both passed off, each to the other, eyes locked in secret communication. Aw, how sweet, I was thinking. How long it will last, I don’t know, but still, so, so sweet.

  Jemimah Moses again chooses a ruby on a necklace. I strongly suspect it will not rest on her throat but rather on that of her daughter, Rosy, whom she rescued from slavery and of whom she is most proud.

  John Thomas and Finn McGee both passed on taking anything from the pile and said, “Just give us an extra bump in pay when we gets back to Boston. All that sparkly stuff don’t mean much to us. Last time we had some of it, the dolly-mops had it tucked deep in their purses and we poor sods was out in some alley face-down in a world of pain. No, Skipper, just put somethin’ extra next to our names and we’ll be happy.”

  In some ways, those two are brighter than they look.

  It has been decided that Tink will remain in Havana after the wedding to set up the Caribbean office of Faber Shipping Worldwide. Even though the Embargo is still in effect, it can’t last forever, and it would be good if we are already in place to take advantage of the rich West Indian trade when the Embargo does fall. Get a jump on the competition, as it were. Tink will be given a number of the gold doubloons from the treasure chest to accomplish his task. I think Ezra would approve.

  And, too, I’m not so sure Concepción is all that anxious to leave friends and family and head to the soon-to-be-frozen north, however much in love with her “Juan Teenker” she might be. Nay, best they stay down here for a while in the warmth of the Caribbean sun and better learn each other’s language. They already know the language of love, but that only goes so far.

  So it is that the crew of the Nancy B. Alsop turns to some serious fun. It’s off to the taverns and beaches, and the bullfights. No, not for me, as I have no love for that particular blood sport, but there is one I do attend, with Davy, Tink, Daniel, and Joannie by my side.

  It is to La Pelea de Gallos arena that we go, to return to the cockfights. We shoulder in next to the ring, get drinks from a passing vendor, and prepare to place our bets. Ah, yes, it is good to be back!

  I assign Daniel to carefully watch Joannie, as it was in this very place that she was abducted the last time we were here—kidnapped by the evil pirate El Feo, he who now sleeps with the fishes and good for him, the evil bastard. She is miffed at that—I can take care of myself, thank you, Miss!—but she does not hold it against young Mr. Prescott, and the two are soon seen with arms about the waist and shoulders of the other as they watch the fights.

  “So, Tink,” I ask, all innocent. “Did you see Captain Flaco Jimenez when you landed at Bahia Honda?”

  “Aye,” says Tink, smiling and giving me a knowing look. “He greeted me most kind, gave me food and drink, and called for a coach to bring me here to Havana.”

  “Ah,” I say. “And that is it?”

  “Yes, Jacky, hate to disappoint you, but he says it is not wise for him to come into Havana right now, but he feels sure he will see his ‘leetle Engleese jalapeño pepper’ very soon,” says Tink.

  “Well, that shan’t happen, and it is not a disappointment.” I sniff, miffed at his insinuation. “I expect James Emerson Fletcher to be standing on the dock when we return.”

  “Right,” says Tink, and turns his attention back to the ring. “Plus, I told him you were in New Orleans and not around here.”

  “Good,” I say, not meaning it much.

  “Señors y señoritas! Buenos días! Welcome to La Pelea de Gallos! For your pleasure, the first match of the day!”

  A man in a red sash has appeared in the center of the ring, and the big doors at the rear open to reveal two men in white linen suits marching out, clutching their gamecocks under their arms.

  “On the right, we have Roberto Ricardo from Rancho del Mar!”

  The man lifts his bird and the crowd roars.

  “And on the left is Jesus Maria Maldonado from Hacienda de la Playa!”

  When the men have reached the center of the ring, Red Sash orders, “Engage!” and the two men hold their cocks beak to beak to infuriate them and get them in true fighting form.

  As they do this, I think back to my own warrior, a veteran of this very ring . . .

  El Gringo Furioso—you devil. What do you tell your sons, eh? I visit with the old warrior when I am at Dovecote—he struts around, his chest out, plainly proud of his harem of hens and the covey of black and white chicks that scamper about. Do you tell them of your glorious battles in the ring of La Pelea de Gallos in Havana, do you? How you overcame the great champion El Matador and struck him down to the bloody ground. You know your silver fighting spurs still hang there on the wall of your coop, should you ever need them again. Amy Trevelyne tells me a number of your proud young cocks have been sent off to other estates to breed with other, heavier birds. Apparently, your sons are doing quite well as fighters in the ring. Some now live and prosper at Monticello, President Jefferson’s kip, so, El Gringo Furioso, thy tribe doth increase . . . .

  My mind is brought back to Havana in the here and now as the red-sashed ringmaster calls out, “Fight!”

  And so the day goes. I win some, lose so
me, but it’s all good. After a fine afternoon, we head back to the Nancy B., Joannie and I to prepare for a set at Ric’s Cafe Americano, and the rest of the rogues get ready for Bachelors’ Last Night Out . . .

  Davy, Jim, Daniel, Thomas, and McGee, all dressed in their best, haul John Tinker off the Nancy B. and head for the center of the city. I catch fragments of their talk . . . Ain’t too late to turn back now, Brother! . . . and . . . Till Death Do Us Part could be a long, long time, Tink! . . . and . . . You’re still a free man . . . We can hop on the Nancy and be outta here in no time! C’mon, she’ll get over it!

  Same as it ever was, same as it ever was . . . I just hope they’ll be in some sort of shape for the wedding tomorrow.

  Chapter 16

  A weary Nancy B. Alsop pulled out of Havana Bay the day after the wedding and set her sails for New Orleans and, yes, it had been a glorious wedding . . .

  Havana Cathedral has been described as “music set in stone” and I feel the description is apt. Unlike other cathedrals I have been in, this one is low, rather than high, and is irregular, with one tower bigger than the other, and not much in the way of stained-glass windows—but still, it is soothing to the mind and comfortable in the way a church should be. And, in addition, like Saint Paul’s in London and Notre Dame in Paris and La Basilica de San Francisco el Grande in Madrid, or even that Buddhist temple in Burma, it did not express any displeasure with the presence of the noted sinner Jacky Faber within its consecrated and holy walls. At least there were no gargoyles to scowl at her . . . Hmmm. Except in that last case—the Buddhist temple where I knelt before the Gautama Buddha at the side of my dear sister Sidrah—there was a major earthquake and tsunami. Were the gods trying to tell me something? I dunno . . .

  I sit in a pew with Jim Tanner on one side and Jemimah Moses on the other. We are all dressed in our best. Joannie Nichols sits in the bench in front of us, in Lawson Peabody black, holding hands with Daniel Prescott in his best Faber Shipping finery and looking about in wonder at the richness of the place. This is not a New England wedding, her eyes are saying, and it is true.

  There is a blare of trumpets and the wedding Processional begins. Here come Davy, the best man, and the rest of the groomsmen, shaky on their pins but managing to do their part. I do not know when they came in last night, but I suspect it was early morning, well after Joannie and I got back from our very successful performance at Ric’s. The flamenco numbers, La Paloma and Malagueña Salerosa, knocked ’em dead, as I knew they would. Thank you, Django. . . .

  No, this is not a solemn New England wedding, wherein the only two obviously happy people present are the bride and groom—and maybe the parents in relief at casting off two troublesome offspring into some sort of respectable life. No, this is marriage, Spanish style.

  The reception takes place at Ric’s Café Americano, and he has outdone himself in the way of lavish display. There are garlands of aromatic flowers festooned about, tables laden with food and drink, and the dance floor cleared for . . . La Bamba!

  Para bailar la bamba

  Para bailar la bamba

  Su necesita una poca de gracia

  Una poca de gracia . . .

  Since I am the flower girl and friend to the groom and known to señor Ric, I am chosen to take up my guitar and start the festivities. I sing that verse as the newly married Concepción and John Tinker take the floor. She is dressed in white with a small black apron and he in his finest Faber Shipping nautical gear. The sense of the thing is that one must “have a bit of grace in order to sing this song,” and I hope I have that bit of grace as I go on . . .

  Para mi, para ti, ay arriba y arriba

  Ay arriba y arriba

  Por ti seré, por ti seré, por ti seré!

  Tink has a long red sash wrapped around his waist and Concepción unwinds it, spinning him slowly about. Tink is not a great dancer, due to his wounded leg, but he manages a huge grin as well as some fancy footwork—steps that I taught him yesterday—much stamping of his booted feet and all.

  The ribbon is spread out straight on the floor and the newly married pair dance around it and begin to shape it about with little movements of their toes, the object being to form it into a bow, symbolizing the bond between the two performing the dance. Arriba, arriba! means take it higher! higher! encouraging the newlyweds to move faster! faster! and, indeed, the tempo of the music picks up as I strum all the faster.

  Yo no soy un marinero

  Yo no soy un marinero,

  Soy Capitán,

  Soy Capitán, soy Capitán!

  This verse is usually sung by the groom, proclaiming him to be not just a simple sailor but a mighty captain, captain of both their fates. Their attention is to the ribbon and it seems to be taking shape. I knew this to be a Mexican tradition that had traveled out to the Hispanic islands and I briefed the confused Tink on how the thing was done and he seems to be doing all right while sweating mightily. I keep the thing going with a quiet vamp as they press on . . .

  Ba, ba, bamba!

  Ba, ba, bamba!

  Ba, ba, bamba!

  Ba, ba, bamba.

  Bam!

  They have accomplished the task. Concepción bends gracefully down and picks up the ends of the ribbon and, indeed, it is now in the form of a graceful bow, and it is held up for all to admire.

  There is great applause and cries of olé! and Concepción takes up the ribbon and unties it and gives one end to Tink and then walks a short distance away and then places the other end on her own waist and spins around and around till she winds up in Tink’s arm with the ribbon wrapped tight around her middle.

  He places a kiss on her brow, as I round things out with a final verse . . .

  Para bailar la bamba

  Para bailar la bamba

  Su necesita una poca de gracia

  Una poca de gracia . . .

  Para mi, para ti, ay arriba y arriba

  Ay arriba y arriba Por ti seré, por ti seré, por ti seré!

  Ba, ba, bamba!

  Ba, ba, bamba!

  Ba, ba, bamba!

  Ba, ba, bamba.

  Bam!

  I fade out into silence on the last lines and the party starts for real.

  New England should take notice . . . Olé!

  Chapter 17

  We are once again heading up the mouth of the Mississippi River to New Orleans, with the intention of boarding Mrs. Babineau’s next batch of girls, reclaiming Clarissa Worthington Howe, and having a bit of fine liberty in one of the greatest liberty ports in this hemisphere.

  We accomplish the first two goals, but not the third . . .

  I know that trouble is afoot as soon as I ascend the steps of the House of the Rising Sun, Davy Jones and Jim Tanner by my side, and Herbert greets me with, “Bonjour, Miss, but you’d best see Madame Babineau, tout de suite.” He is not smiling when he says that and opens the door for us.

  I wonder about this as I enter the foyer, but I do not wonder long for Mrs. Babineau comes storming out of her office as soon as Herbert announces me. She is plainly furious . . .

  Uh-oh . . .

  “You!” she cries, coming up before me and sticking her quivering finger in my face. “You bring that thing here and then go away and leave her? You go up there now and get her the hell out of here, you!”

  She points up the stairs and snarls, “Claudelle’s room!”

  I waste no time in running up the stairs. When I reach the landing, followed closely by my lads, I hear the sound of wailing and charge into the very yellow room of Mam’selle Claudelle de Bourbon, and the wailing is not coming from Clarissa, no, it is coming from a very distraught Mam’selle, who is standing crying in a corner, wringing her hands.

  “Oh, Precious!” she cries. “Thank God you’ve come!”

  No sound comes from Clarissa Worthington Howe, who lies on her back on Mam’selle’s very rumpled bed, clad only in chemise and drawers. Her mouth is open and a streak of white extends from each nostril down over her
upper lip. There is a large brown stain on her undershirt that I can only hope is merely whiskey.

  I whirl on Mam’selle. “How could you let this happen!”

  Mam’selle’s face is contorted with anguish, as she holds out her arms to me. “Oh, Precious, you can’t be mad at your Mam’selle, you just can’t! I could not bear that! Please tell me you’re not!”

  I ignore her outstretched arms. “You knew she was my friend and new to your town,” I say severely.

  “Oh, Precious, did you ever try sayin’ no to that girl? She just won’t listen!”

  I then turn and point down with a stiff finger to Clarissa’s crotch and demand, with menace in my voice, “Any men there?”

  “Oh, no, Precious, no . . . mens,” she whimpers, looking away. “I wouldn’t let that happen to your dear frey-und.”

  “What did she have?” I ask, looking down on the sodden mess on the bed.

  “Oh, just a little morphine . . . whiskey . . . not all at once, mind you, I been watchin’ out for her, really I has . . . absinthe . . . smoke . . . lots of hemp, some of it laced with opium . . . She don’t know how to handle that junk, but still she kept keepin’ on . . . I had to hang on tight.”