Boston Jacky

by L. A. Meyer

  “Suffrage . . . votes for women, you mean?”

  “Yes, that.”

  “But what does that have to do with alcohol?”

  “Women suffer in many ways, Sir,” says Mrs. Shinn, regarding Mr. Pickering as if he were a toad. “Demon rum contributes to all their forms of suffering—drunken fathers who do not come home with their pay envelopes . . . children who do not eat because their fathers have drunk up all their money and lie in the gutter, young mothers beaten and left destitute, babes in their arms crying out for milk . . .”

  “Ah, yes, all that,” says Ezra, turning from her and strolling about the floor with his hands behind his back. “Now, you did mention that Miss Faber did, at the time of your first meeting, disrupt a march of your . . . COWS. Do I have that right?”

  “Yes,” she replies testily.

  “And just how did she disrupt the grand march of the COWS?”

  There are some titters from the gallery.

  Mrs. Shinn casts him a very sharp look. She puffs up, reddening, then says, “By making mooing sounds.”

  Then, from the back of the gallery is heard a soft moooo . . . then another . . . mooooo . . .

  And then another, from a surprising source. All heads turn and gaze up at the bench. That last mooo came from Judge Hiram Thwackham. He is looking very intently at his gavel, as if it had turned a vivid shade of what . . .? Purple, perhaps? A sly grin creeps across his face . . . and one spreads across mine as well.

  Ah-ha . . .

  He lets out yet another low mooooo and then says, “How now, Purple Cow? How doth thee do? Shall we dance and fly over the moon? And where is the dish and the spoon, pray tell?”

  He then notices the stares directed his way and shakes his head to clear it, setting up undulating waves in his ample wattles.

  “Ahem!” he says. “Excuse me. Please continue.”

  “No more questions, Mrs. Shinn,” says Ezra, looking a bit puzzled. “You may step down.”

  Mrs. Shinn does so, in a great huff, welcomed back to the gallery with a few more mooos. I am sure there are not three men here in this great room who wish to see Mrs. Shinn and her COWS succeed in their quest to close the taverns.

  When Ezra gets back to our table, I whisper, “Better get things moving, Ezra, as things are going to get strange.”

  He looks puzzled but nods. “I call Miss Molly Malone to the stand.”

  Molly is sworn and plunks herself down and testifies . . .

  “I am a barmaid at the Pig and Whistle Inn . . .” She gets a small cheer on that from some wag way in the back. “I swears on that there Bible and on the grave of me sainted mother that what I served those kids on that day was nothin’ more than sweet tea!”

  Then Ezra calls up Mistress Pimm.

  “Miranda Pimm, Head Mistress, the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls, Beacon Street, Boston,” she says upon being sworn in.

  “You have agreed to assume the guardianship of this Joan Nichols?”

  “Yes, until she reaches her majority. Ample funds have been provided by Faber Shipping for her tuition and upkeep till that time.”

  “Your witness, Mr. Brown,” says Ezra, and he steps back to our table as the Prosecutor comes forward.

  “Mistress Pimm, you do not have any reservations in accepting money from Miss Faber in this matter, considering her reputation?”

  “None whatsoever,” replies Mistress, drilling the lawyer with her steeliest gaze. “I am proud of all my girls. I have been to the Emerald Playhouse and have seen the In the Belly of the Bloodhound play and found it most commendable. I am proud of my former students: Amy Trevelyne for having written it and Jacky Faber for staging it. I am proud of those of my girls who are performing in it. I am proud of all my girls.”

  That put the lid on that. It brought a tear to my eye, and I suspect one to Amy Trevelyne’s, as well.

  It sums up things for Judge Thwackham, too. He brings down his gavel and roars, “The girl is remanded into the custody of Mistress Pimm! Now let’s take care of that black boy over there, and then let’s get the hell out of here. There looks to be a beautiful purple sunset out there and I want to bask in it!” With that he pulls off his wig and tosses it at Mr. Hamilton Brown with a hearty, “Haw! Haw! Catch that, Counselor! You can use it to powder your bum!”

  That speech and toss gets a lot of surreptitious, questioning glances between members of the court. Can it be that the Old Bull has finally lost his mind? He certainly seems to be casting his eyes about most avidly.

  Well, Joannie, at least we got you out, I’m thinking as Joannie is hauled out by the bailiff, leaving Ravi standing all alone in the middle of the room. Now for you, Ravi . . .

  Prosecutor Brown pushes doggedly on.

  “I call Jacky Faber to the stand.” I did not fail to notice the lack of the Miss before my name.

  I rise, am sworn, and the oft-despised Faber bottom is placed in the witness chair, where it settles in and waits for the attack. It comes . . .

  “In regards to this child, Ravi Ganesh Faber, just how did you come by him?”

  “In India . . . Bombay . . . He was a street beggar whom I took in.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “He seemed a bright young lad. He intrigued me with his intelligence and bravery. I myself had been a beggar on the streets of London and knew the territory, as it were.”

  “So you very conveniently picked yourself up a slave?”

  “He is not my slave, and never has been. He is my adopted son, and I have great affection for him.”

  “Ah. And have you filed formal adoption papers for him?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “And why not, if you have such regard for that rather dark little Hottentot?” he asks with a sneer.

  “You know very well why not, Sir,” I say, lifting my burning eyes to his. “As a single female without male relatives, I am in control of all my properties. I own Faber Shipping Worldwide, the Pig and Whistle Inn, the Emerald Playhouse, several ships, and many boats. On the advice of counsel, should I legally adopt a son, then he would have control of all my assets, he being male and me being a stupid woman. Although that ‘dark little Hottentot’ is extremely intelligent, I do not think he is yet ready to take on that burden.”

  That speech gets a few guffaws and cries of “Well said!” from the gallery, which are quickly silenced by Judge Thwackham’s mighty pounding of his gavel. I had noticed, during this exchange, that the Judge had been seen swatting at flies and muttering, “Bluebottle flies! How the hell did they get in here? Scat, you purple devils, away with you!” Apparently, they are brightly colored flies that no one else can see.

  The Judge rises in full magisterial mode. “Boring! This is all so very goddamn boring! I shall surely die of terminal ennui if this is to go on much longer!” shouts Judge Thwackham, relentlessly pounding his gavel. “Let us settle this now! Since that little brown bugger has not been adopted by any person of good character and white skin, and has been charged with littering the streets of Boston, I direct that he be returned to the Reformatory and may he spend the rest of his miserable life there! Take him away!”

  Damn! Sometimes the magic works, and sometimes it doesn’t!

  Ezra shoots to his feet. “Your Honor, I object! There has been absolutely no evidence lodged against this boy on the littering charge!”

  Mr. Hamilton Brown, looking very distraught at the proceedings, manages to say, “Constable Wiggins?”

  Here Wiggins sees an opening, and he marches across the floor and levels an accusing finger at poor Ravi, who is kneeling quivering on the floor

  “I observed this miscreant throwing those nasty shells upon the clean streets of Boston,” says Wiggins, his face red with anger.

  I suspect Wiggins had arrived at Skivareen’s soon after Pigger and Glory popped open the bottle of my special brew and drank it down. He was able to put together what happened to them, the goose and gander who were no longer laying golden eggs f
or him, and what was presently happening to Judge Thwackham, and it all led, in his little brain, to me. Pity he wasn’t given a share of the purple potion as Pyro Johnnie was—he just might not be here now, causing me trouble if he had. I have a vivid picture in my mind of he and Goody going at it on the courthouse steps, but, alas . . .

  “And furthermore, yer Honor, that there female, Jacky Faber, is the cause of much of the disruption in this town, and you yourself said that if she ever again appeared in your courtroom, the sentence you laid upon her would be carried out, and there she is!”

  Judge Thwackham leans back, glares at me, and considers. Then he says, “Oh, very well, off with her head, then. Do you have an ax, Constable? Good. Then take her out and do it. The stump of the Old Gallows Tree should serve nicely as the chopping block.” He rubs his hands fastidiously. “Make too much of a mess in here . . . all that purple blood on the floor.”

  People are beginning to look at each other curiously. What was going on with Judge Thwackham?

  Both Ravi and Ezra get to their feet to protest.

  “No!” says Ravi, rushing to my side. “You must not cut off poor Memsahib’s dear head! No!”

  Ravi, coming from a part of the world where having one’s head separated from one’s shoulders is always a real possibility, completely misunderstands. He stands before me, arms outstretched before the approaching bailiff. I cry, “Ravi, no! That’s not going to happen! Don’t worry about me!” But as that officer of the court reaches for him, Ravi bites him hard on the arm. “Not hurt Mommy!” he cries, as the bailiff, cursing mightily, pries him off his arm and carries him, struggling, back to the center of the court.

  “Ha! Look at that!” cries the Judge, pointing at Ravi. “The little wog is a cannibal, as well as a litterbug! See, he was trying to eat the Bailiff! Capitol stuff! Well, turnabout is fair play as I see it. Bailiff, take him out and tie him to the stake and fetch firewood. We’ll roast the little bugger and have him for supper! He looks quite tender in many of his parts. Set aside a joint or two for me, well-done. Ha! The cannibal cannibalized, as it were, perfect justice by God!” Judge Thwackham fidgets about, peering underneath his bench. “And then bring a shotgun over here and kill these damned purple snakes that are crawling over my feet. Get back, damn you! Back!”

  Ezra remains on his feet.

  “Your Honor!” he shouts over the din. “The suspended sentence you imposed on this girl was not that she be beheaded, for God’s sake.”

  “What’s a poor Judge to do these days?” Judge Thwackham sighs. “Very well, take her out and hang her, then. I suppose we can still manage that simple task.”

  “I would further respectfully remind his Honor that this proceeding is a hearing, not a trial. Miss Faber has not been charged with any crime.”

  “I’m afraid that’s true, Your Honor,” says a very worried Prosecutor Hamilton Brown, looking about at the shambles his precious court is becoming. “I regret we cannot hang the girl right now.”

  “Pure anarchy is what it is when a decent Judge cannot string up whom he wants and when he wants. Pure anarchy and a sad state of affairs is what I call it,” says Thwackham with a serious shaking of the jowls. “Very well. Constable, leave off. We’ll settle with her later.”

  Wiggins, glowering in frustration, turns around and resumes his station next to the Bench.

  The courtroom by now is completely abuzz with wonderment. Has the Mad Bull gone actually mad?

  A group of five well-dressed men now approach the Bench, hats in hand.

  “Yes, what is it?” asks the Judge testily.

  “We . . . we think the learned Judge might benefit from a rest in his chambers. It appears you are having a bit of a . . . trying time?”

  “‘Trying time’? Nonsense. I am in top form. In the pink . . . or the purple, as it were. Who are you?”

  “Aldus Throckmorton, Your Honor, Alderman of the Third Ward, and your ardent supporter, Sir.”

  “Good,” says the Judge. “Thank you for your opinion, Alderman, and for your support. I find you Guilty of Contempt of Court and sentence you to six months at hard labor.” He brings down his gavel. “Bailiff, take him away. Next?”

  The mouth of the prominent citizen, Alderman Throckmorton, falls open, his chin very nearly landing on his chest. He is led away, sputtering, by a bailiff, of which the Judge seems to have an inexhaustible supply.

  The next man steps up and says nervously, “J . . . J . . . Jeremy Beacham, Your Honor, Publisher of the Boston Patriot, and I think . . . perhaps . . . a slight recess might be in order?”

  “Capitol idea!” shouts Judge Thwackham, again bringing down his hammer. “For you, that is! Contempt of Court! Six months! Bailiff, take him away!”

  The rest of the delegation fades swiftly away.

  Stifling my giggles behind my hand, I notice the prominent journalist Mr. David Lawrence, of the Boston Patriot, gleefully scribbling, no doubt detailing the incarceration of his boss. Sometimes, Mr. Lawrence, life is definitely worth living.

  I reflect that my old cell is now holding a better batch of citizens than when I was resident therein, as two more protesters of the Judge’s behavior are led away. I further reflect that a Judge in his courtroom is much like the Captain of a ship—disobey either at your peril.

  Judge Thwackham now thoughtfully regards his right-hand man, Attorney Brown, with his hand to his chin. “Did you know, Counselor,” he says with distaste, “that your nose has begun to grow in a rather alarming way? Yes, now it has definitely become a muzzle, a rather long white snout with purple whiskers out the sides. It’s remarkably like that of a baboon, Sir. What do you think of that?”

  “I . . . I hope that is not true, Your Honor,” stammers Mr. Brown.

  “Well, it is,” says the Judge. “Turn around and pull down your trousers. We must see if you really are some sort of monkey.”

  The Bailiff has several assistants with clubs and they go about the chamber trying to keep some order in the court, but they are not being very successful. I myself cannot stifle a grin spreading across my face, a sight that is not missed by Constable Wiggins.

  Attorney Hamilton Brown stands flummoxed, stuttering, and unable to speak.

  “Well, do it man! We must examine your buttocks to be sure!” bellows Judge Thwackham. “Constable, do your duty and pull down his pants!”

  Wiggins, never one to question an order given by a superior, strides over to the quivering Mr. Brown, bends the small man over his large knee, inserts thumb in the waistband of the pants in question, and pulls them down.

  There is a common gasp in the courtroom, but no gasp is as loud as the one from the Judge. “There is the proof!” he shouts, puffed up and pointing a stiff finger at the poor Prosecutor’s bottom. “Bright blue, as blue as the very sky! You, Sir, are a Blue-assed Baboon and you have no place in a court of Law! Bailiff! Take this monkey down and put him in a cell and arrange for his immediate transfer to the zoo!”

  The Bailiff, another sod not used to disobeying orders, takes the unfortunate officer of the court by the arm and drags him from the room, Mr. Brown trying vainly to pull his pants back up.

  Funny, I noticed that his rump was a rather gray shade of white, and not blue at all. Oh, well . . .

  But the Judge was not done this day yet, oh no, he was not . . .

  “Imagine that,” he says, leaning back on his throne, “a dirty baboon posing as a court Prosecutor all these years, tsk, tsk.”

  I think back on all the Prosecutors and King’s Counsels, and other such who have hounded me all my days, and reflect that honest baboons and other monkeys are possibly getting a bad name.

  “Never mind,” he says, brightening. “Now, Constable, if you will call Mrs. Shinn up to the Bench, please. And I believe we may conclude this day in a most pleasant fashion.”

  “Mrs. Hester Chumbley Shinn. To the Stand, please!”

  Mrs. Shinn, looking somewhat perplexed by both the tumult in the courtroom and her recal
l to the Bench, goes to stand once again in front of Judge Thwackham. She catches my eye and I cannot resist giving her what I know is one of my infuriating little finger waves. I should be careful, I know, but sometimes I just can’t help it.

  The Judge beams down upon her, and I know her hopes for a ruling resulting in the destruction of me are once again rising in her breast, when Thwackham says . . .

  “Mrs. Shinn, I am sure you know you possess a wide bottom. Yes, it is quite wide and admirable, and you should be most proud of your lower appendage.”

  The mouth of Mrs. Hester Chumbley Shinn falls open in shock.

  “However, what you perhaps do not know, dear lady, is that I, Judge Hiram Thwackham of the Superior Court of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, have a great affection for female bottoms, wide and ample ones in particular.”

  The open mouth of Mrs. Shinn is mimicked by those of the now almost-quiet onlookers in the Gallery. This cannot be happening . . . is the unspoken thought in the minds of all.

  A thin, weedy gent stands up quivering. “I . . . I . . . must protest most vigorously. I am Amos Shinn and Mrs. Shinn is my wife!”

  “The poor man” is heard whispered in all the galleries.

  “This cannot be allowed to happen! This court is a . . . a . . . travesty!”

  Thwackham turns to Wiggins. “Do you have a firearm on your person?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” says Wiggins, reaching in his vest and pulling out a pistol.

  “Good,” the Judge says, nodding gravely. “Then shoot that man and dispose of him. We can’t have angry husbands hanging about, now, can we?”

  Mr. Shinn, upon seeing his apparent doom, faints dead away, slumping to the floor behind a bench, thereby saving Wiggins the trouble of dispatching him.

  That small problem solved to his satisfaction, Judge Thwackham turns once again to the astounded Mrs. Shinn.

  “Mrs. Shinn, while other gentlemen of my status prefer a small, shy, and lithe little female wriggling beneath them when betwixt the sheets, I demand a good, solid workbench, I do, and you Madame, fill the bill most admirably. Bailiff, you will now escort the lady to my chambers, where we will have a bit of a frolic!”