Boston Jacky

by L. A. Meyer

  She gives me a look. “What will you do?”

  “As soon as I see what colors the other ship is flying, I will decide,” I say, my glass still to my eye. “Ha! She’s flying the Tricolor! Prolly one of Lafitte’s fleet! Jim, hard left! Come up behind Flaco as he passes.”

  “What’s going to happen?” asks Clarissa.

  I cut her a look as I slap my long glass shut and say, “We are going to have what is called an ‘action.’ You’d best get below.”

  Damn! I am short-handed! I wish I had John Tinker here! Damn!

  Just then the pursuing vessel’s bow-chaser lets go again . . . crraack! and smash! the ball crashes into our rail as we cross El Diablo’s wake and splinters rain across our deck.

  Flaco, seeing what we have done, brings his ship about to aid us in this fight.

  “Ready the broadside! Fire!” Davy, Thomas, and McGee jerk their lanyards and . . .

  Craaack! Craaack! Craaack!

  All our starboard guns pour forth their murderous fire. One of the balls plows into the water just short of the enemy ship but two slam into his side.

  “That hurt him! Portside now!” The three gunners leap to the guns on the other side. “Joannie, Danny! Reload! Powder! Shot! Jim, bring her about! Hard alee!”

  I see that Clarissa is standing there still. She did not go below. Very well . . .

  “You, too!” I shout at her. “Follow Joannie! Get powder! She’ll show you!” I give her a push in the direction of the hatchway, and she dashes off after the kids.

  As the Nancy B. turns her head into the wind and comes about on the other tack, there is a long boooooommmm as Flaco brings his heavier guns to bear and fires them off. The French ship is hurt, but still he comes doggedly on.

  Hmmmm . . . He shows more fight than one of Lafitte’s captains would usually do . . .

  The Nancy B. has completed her turn and the port guns now bear.

  “Lads! Aim and fire when ready! Try for the waterline!”

  Davy leans over his swivel gun, aims, locks it down, judges the roll of the ship, and then jerks the lanyard.

  Crraaack!

  Then the other two guns fire together . . .

  Craaack! Craaack!

  . . . and we watch . . . and yes!

  Two of the balls hit the hull of the Frenchy, one of them right at his waterline, and I can see the water pouring in.

  “Good shooting, lads! Reload!”

  Joannie, Danny, and Clarissa have finished loading the starboard guns and rush to the port side. As they go, I see . . . Hooray! He has had enough!

  I grab Clarissa’s arm as she goes by me. She turns to look and, indeed, the enemy is turning away, intent now on saving his ship from sinking. He, however, is not quite done. A puff of smoke appears at his stern and a low boooommmm sounds across the water. He has fired his stern chaser in a final act of defiance.

  We wait for it and sure enough . . . the ball comes whistling toward us and I squeeze Clarissa’s arm and . . .

  WHOOOOSH!

  The ball passes right between our faces. We stand such that our heads are a mere two feet apart—if that shot had veered one foot either way, the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls would have lost, in a rather grisly fashion, one of their very recent graduates.

  Clarissa shudders, and I shake a bit, too, but then say, “Aye, that was close, Sister, but as the saying goes, a miss is as good as a mile. And you acquitted yourself well, Seaman Apprentice Howe, you should be proud. You can now truthfully say that you are a combat veteran in the fight against the French.”

  “But I am not mad at the French,” she says, leaning down to pluck a small splinter from her ankle. “I am mad at you.”

  “Ah, and a severely wounded veteran, and grateful to her commander, as well. If Faber Shipping ever has a medal struck commemorating this battle, you shall have one, for sure. And oh, look. Flaco is coming alongside.”

  “Can you trust him?” asks a very dubious Clarissa.

  “As much as I trust any pirate,” I reply. “But no, Flaco is all right.”

  El Diablo Rojo pulls up next to us, starboard side to, and Clarissa and I go to stand on my quarterdeck. I see faces I recognize and I wave and call out, “Coyote! Serpiente! And young Perrito, too! Hola! All of you! And could that be the mighty Chucho, mi amigo, come back to the Red Brotherhood? Yes, it is! I knew you could not stay away for long! The life of a simple farmer not for you, como no? I thought so! The Brotherhood forever!”

  And there, of course, is Captain Flaco Jimenez. As soon as our gunwales touch, he is over the rail and bounding onto my quarterdeck, his smile bright, his eyes gleaming, his arms outstretched, beads and jangles dangling from his long braided black hair.

  “Cara mia!” he exults. “My little Inglese cactus flower has come back to her Flaco, as I knew she someday would, the good God be praised!”

  He puts one arm around my waist and with his other hand grabs a hank of my hair and pulls me over backward. Flaco and other males of my acquaintance have discovered that, when they pull back the Faber head in this manner, the Faber mouth conveniently opens.

  Flaco brings his mouth on mine and I am kissed with the purest of Hispanic ardor. It seems I often find myself in this posture when meeting up again with gentlemen friends—not that Flaco is in any way a gentleman, but he does have his charms.

  Ummm . . . but no . . .

  I push him away, getting his hands off my tail and his tongue out of my mouth.

  “It is good to see you again, Flaco,” I say, somewhat breathless, “although I am growing somewhat tired of bailing your swarthy butt out of trouble.”

  “But I was not in trouble!” Flaco insists, then laughs.

  “It seems that Frenchy was very intent on bagging your sorry ass.”

  “Ah, mi querida, that was because I have his wife down below. If things had gotten close, I would have thrown her overboard and he would have had to stop to pick her up.”

  “His wife?”

  “Sí. She is a hostage. Grabbed her in a raid on Martinique. Which is the reason for the French colors on that other ship.”

  “And did you enjoy her charms, you pícaro?” I say, giving him a poke in the side and a severe look.

  “No, mi corazón, you are the only love of my life and I have to keep myself pure for you.”

  I give a profoundly disbelieving snort.

  “Besides, she is a shrew. Believe me, she is in my brig, not in my bed. I think that Captain wanted to be rid of both me and her, which is why he tried so hard to sink me. It would have been most convenient for him. After all, the amount of her ransom was small, but still he did not pay it.”

  “Well, Flaco, you must have dinner with us and bring me up to date on your adventures and—”

  It is at this time that he notices Clarissa standing next to me. He gasps, “And what is this, then? A hostage? An angel?”

  Clarissa, though dressed in the simplest of sailor togs, does not need fine clothes to look beautiful. Noticing the male attention, she shakes her head to fluff out her blond locks, takes a deep breath to fill out her chest, and brings the full force of those baby blues to bear on Flaco Jimenez.

  “No, Flaco, she is neither of those. She is a sometime friend of mine. Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe, may I present Captain Flaco Jimenez?”

  He does not seem to hear me. He gets down on one knee before her and says, “If she is hostage, I will trade her for the wife of the French capitán.”

  “No deal, Flaco,” I say, a bit miffed.

  “I have three fat merchants below on El Diablo Rojo, crying their eyes out. I will trade them all for this angel of beauty,” says Flaco, his eyes fixed on Clarissa.

  “Still no deal,” I say.

  “But I am in luff!” protests the plainly smitten Flaco.

  “I thought you were in luff with me, you dog!” I retort.

  “I am, I am, cariña, but . . .”

  I’m getting a bit tired of this. First Randall drops me
as soon as he sees Polly Von; Lord Allen’s eyes light up upon seeing Sidrah; and now I see Flaco being dazzled by Clarissa. I know I have no claim on any of those gents, but still . . . I’m going to have to start traveling with less glamorous female companions.

  “Ship, Miss,” calls Daniel from the foretop. “A big one. North, northeast, just over the horizon.”

  Instantly long glasses are snapped open and trained on the intruder.

  “It’s that damned Yankee Chesapeake!” says Flaco, obviously not pleased. “She has been up and down this coast forever. Nothing but trouble for honest pirates. Madre mía! Here I have the two most beautiful muchachas in all the world and I must flee because of that pig-dog of a Yankee. Maldita sea!”

  I, myself, reflect that it’s getting to be a real small ocean.

  As the big frigate bears down upon us, Flaco climbs back into his ship and waves us off. “Adiós, mis queridas! Remember your Flaco is waiting breathlessly for your return!”

  With that, Flaco Jimenez and El Diablo Rojo are gone.

  I turn my attention to the ship that approaches from the north.

  “Joannie, pull down our black colors and put up the Faber Shipping flag. Yes, and the U.S. flag, too. They will board us to search the ship for contraband—to make sure we are not violating the Embargo. All they will find is a big pile of goobers, so be calm. Here they come.” The ingots are all painted and hidden in the ballast, and the contents of the treasure cask are concealed ’neath my floorboards.

  The USS Chesapeake slackens her sails and heaves to and lowers a lifeboat in which are six sailors, a naval officer . . . and a young Marine officer . . . Somehow, I suspected that would be the case, having seen the glint of long glasses trained upon us as the big ship approached.

  The boat comes alongside and is secured, and we put a ladder down. Presently the naval officer comes up on deck, and since we are all dressed as simple seamen, no bows and curtsies are exchanged . . . no niceties, either. The six sailors follow the officer aboard.

  “I am Lieutenant Pulver of USS Chesapeake. We are here to inspect your vessel,” huffs the very junior and very self-important young lieutenant, his nose high in the air. “Who is Captain here?”

  I step forward and say, “This is the Nancy B. Alsop, out of Boston, registered under Faber Shipping Worldwide, an American corporation. I, Jacky Faber, am Captain.”

  He looks dubious at that, but says, “You will report your cargo and stand aside.”

  “We are northbound for Boston, carrying passengers and a cargo of sponges and goober peas. You may inspect.”

  He heads for the hatchway. “Peterman, Krueger,” he orders, “follow me,” and two of the sailors follow him dutifully down. Clarissa and I exchange a secret smile, knowing full well the nature of the passengers.

  As they go below, Marine Second Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne comes on deck, as I suspected he would, looking magnificent in the new United States Marines’ deep blue uniform with the high leather collar and white clay anchors affixed thereon.

  Clarissa gasps upon seeing him, and her back goes ramrod straight and her eyes go hooded. I feel a slight pang of guilt—I knew that Randall was aboard this vessel, but I did not tell Clarissa—I could have warned her that he would arrive, but hey, all’s fair in love and war, right?

  “Lieutenant Trevelyne,” I simper, doing a mock curtsy. “So good to see you again. Surely you remember my classmate Miss Clarissa Howe?”

  When I first arrived in Boston to attend the Lawson Peabody, right after I got booted off the Dolphin, Clarissa and Randall had been engaged to be married, and I resolved to mess that up for Amy’s sake, which I did. Was I wise in doing that? I don’t know. I was very young and very impulsive . . .

  Clarissa acknowledges Randall’s bow with a slight dip, but the eyes do not go downcast, oh no, they don’t . . . Instead, they burn into his.

  “Well,” says Randall, “this is one scene I never expected to see—the two of you together, and not at each other’s throats.”

  “You are seeing it now, Randall,” I say. “And, if you’d like to follow us, we can have a bit of a snack.”

  I catch Joannie’s eye and signal for wine and food, and she scurries off to see Jemimah. Then sounds come from below . . .

  Oh, isn’t he the most darling little navy officer! And these fine sailor boys! Let me show you my darling cabin! And you, too, yes . . .

  Randall cocks an eye at me in question.

  “Another batch of girls for Mrs. Bodeen’s, fresh up from New Orleans,” I say by way of explanation.

  Randall laughs and turns to the remaining four sailors left on the deck. “Best go down and see to Lieutenant Pulver, lads, and you might find a bit of fun.”

  There are more squeals of feminine delight as four more swabs plunge down the hatchway.

  “There, that takes care of them,” says Randall. “I think we may go below now.”

  We do so and seat ourselves about my little table. Joannie comes in with a tray of wineglasses, a bottle of Madeira, and some small sweet cakes.

  She pours and we all lift glasses to each other.

  “Cheers, Jacky,” says Randall. “Clarissa.”

  “To your health, Lieutenant,” say I.

  “Save it, Randall,” says Clarissa.

  “Well put, dear,” retorts Randall.

  “Knock it off, you two. That was then and this is now,” I say sternly.

  “True,” says Randall. He lifts his glass and drains it. “Ahhhh . . . . Haven’t had anything that good in a long time. The United States Navy is not big on creature comforts. Perhaps I should jump ship and join your crew. From the sounds below decks, it looks like you’re on a rather jolly cruise.” Joannie refills his glass. “Now, how is my lovely Polly Von?”

  “She is well and looks forward to your return.”

  “That is good. We expect to dock in Boston in two weeks. If you see her before I do, please tender my warmest wishes.”

  “I will do so,” I say. “Now tell me the thing about the Leopard.”

  His face darkens and loses all vestige of cheer.

  “Disgraceful business. We stood there in dishonor. We were stopped and boarded and men were taken off our ship, and we did not put up a fight. One shot, one shot is all we were able to get off.”

  “Just one shot, my God,” I whisper.

  “Right. Captain Barron refused to fight. He hauled down our colors and gave up the ship, and let the British take the men and sail off. The Leopard’s Captain hanged one of them for desertion in our plain sight, a sight I shall never forget. We took heavy damage, with three men killed and eighteen wounded. During the engagement, such as it was, I had the damned English bastard in my sights as I stood on the foretop with my men, but I was not allowed to fire.”

  I lay my hand on Randall’s arm. “These things happen, Randall. It is not your fault.”

  “I know, but I do desire satisfaction. However, fifteen officers, including our new commander, Captain Stephen Decatur, have already challenged Captain Barron to duel on the field of honor, and so I must stand in line and wait my turn. Still, it rankles me . . . the shame, the shame . . . and it enrages many in the service and many in the government, and if our two countries once again take up arms against each other, it will be in part because of the Chesapeake–Leopard affair. Count on it.”

  I have no doubt of that—male honor and all . . .

  “But I hope with all my heart that it does not come to that, Randall, for I cannot bear to think of it,” I say. “Now let us talk of more pleasant things.”

  “Very well,” says Randall, brightening. “I informed Captain Decatur of who you are, and he has invited you over for dinner. Full dress, Jacky, and you know what I mean. Let’s give ’em a bit of a jolt, eh?”

  He gives me a wink on that and then turns to Clarissa. “I am sure the invitation will extend to you as well, Miss Howe.”

  Clarissa frosts him with her gaze, but before she can say something spiteful
, I say, “We accept, and—”

  Just then there is a timid knock and Mr. Pulver, looking slightly disheveled, pokes his head in the doorway and stammers, “Sir, I believe we have conducted our search and found nothing . . . and I think we ought to get the men back.”

  “Right you are, Mr. Pulver. Gather the rascals up,” says Randall, rising and bowing to us both. “Ladies, the USS Chesapeake will send a boat over at six o’clock. Will that be convenient? Good. See you then.”

  He goes out the hatch just as the sailors are coming up from below. Some are red-faced, a few are smirking, and the last one up, a young sailor hurriedly tucking his shirt into his trousers, whispers to Randall as he crosses the deck to the waiting boat, “Bless you, Sir . . .”

  “Here, Clarissa. You can wear the white Empire. It’s thin and cool and shows off your best assets,” I say, pulling the dress out of my narrow closet and laying it across my bed. “Forget stockings, you don’t need ’em, and besides, it’s too hot. Here, get it on. Joannie, get into serving-girl rig.”

  “I get to go, too?” she says, hopefully, pulling her shirt over her head.

  “Yes, you shall go as our maidservant. You will stand behind our chairs and tend to our needs. You’ll also be in charge of my fiddle and guitar.”

  “What? As your servant? I won’t—”

  “You’ll do as you’re told,” snarls Clarissa. She has shed her simple sailor gear and pulled the thin white dress down over her head and adjusted it around her, the high waist, just under her breasts, setting her superstructure off quite nicely. “Amazing, Jacky,” she says, “how we have remained the same size over the years, hmm? Now you, girl, give my hair a bit of a brushup. I am not used to engagements with pirates and fear my appearance is the worst for it. Have you got a pink ribbon? Good. Tie it up with that.”

  “You don’t ever have to worry about your appearance, Clarissa,” I say, then turn to our sullen handmaiden. “Joannie, you’ll either do it or you won’t go. You’re too young to be at the Captain’s table, and besides, you weren’t invited. I could take Daniel to perform the role, you know. So decide, girl.”