by L. A. Meyer
"But the danger, Jacky. Your ship is so small."
"She is a very sound craft, Jaimy, as you well know. And if we make a year's worth of successful trips, we would be in a position to buy a bigger ship—maybe a bark or a brigantine—and then we could haul four hundred men at once and make some serious money. And as for danger, a person can die as easily from a fever caught in the streets of London as from a storm at sea. What do you say, Jaimy?"
"But ... I don't want a wife of mine ... working."
I look at him severely. "That's your class talking, Jaimy, not you. I used to stand right outside this place, with my hand out, begging, Jaimy. I ain't too proud to be in trade. I ain't too proud to work."
"I know that, Jacky, and I never want you to—"
"You don't want me to wither and die, do you, Jaimy? 'Cause that's what'll happen to me if I'm put down in some stuffy rooms to be a good, dutiful wife. You know that ain't me, Jaimy. I'm a member of the seagoing brotherhood, too, Jaimy. Don't you remember?"
"I remember, but—"
"Know this, Jaimy," I say, withdrawing my hands from his, "I'll not give up Faber Shipping."
Our eyes lock, and we gaze at each other for a long while.
Finally he smiles and puts his hands back on mine. "So that is the way of it, then? Very well, it is the way it shall be."
"Oh Jaimy! I'm so glad we agree!" I cry, and rise to wrap my arms around his neck. "So glad!"
When I sit back down and calm myself, he reaches over and rumples my hair. "Perhaps I am too much the pessimist, Jacky, while you are forever the bubbly optimist," he says. "But that childhood fable about the belling of the cat comes to mind. Do you recall the moral of that little story? Well, it's that the well-made plans of mice and men oft go awry."
"Aw, g'wan wi' ye, Jaimy," says I, gleefully lapsing back into the Cockney of my youth. "It'll be just prime, you'll see."
After we leave the Admiral Benbow, I link my arm in Jaimy's and put my head on his shoulder, and we walk slowly back to my Nancy B.
Chapter 5
Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.
I am standing in the middle of the room in my ever-so-white and oh-so-lacy bridal gown, while Mairead and Judy and Joannie are on their knees fussing with it, sewing a tighter seam here, taking a tuck there, making everything just perfect.
I let out a long, happy sigh. At last!
"Ah, Judy, will you look at her up there now, all smilin' and dimplin' up, she is." Mairead laughs, winking at Judy.
We are in the rooms of Ian and Mairead Delaney McConnaughey at the London Home for Little Wanderers, making our final preparations. In under an hour, we leave for Saint Paul's Cathedral, where I am to be married this day to Lieutenant James Emerson Fletcher. My ring is back in my ear, and I reach up and touch it. I will be taking it out to put it on Jaimy's finger at the proper time. Yes, my old ring from the time back in that goldsmith's shop in Kingston, when Jaimy and I first plighted our troths.
Something old...
"Well, 'tis not every day a young girl gets married, Mrs. McConnaughey. Let Mistress Mary have her time," replies Judy Miller, her mouth set primly. She is my old comrade from the Rooster Charlie Gang of Cheapside Orphans and new employee of the London Home. "Let her enjoy her last few moments as a tender maiden."
Mairead gives out a snort on that one. "Maiden, maybe, but tender? I think not. Remember, I've sailed with this one before."
Yes, you have, Mairead. I think back fondly to our days on my Emerald, freebooting about the Atlantic, waving swords about and taking prize after prize. "We were wild then, weren't we, Mairead?"
"That we were, Jacky. Suck in your gut a bit ... Good ... That's got it. All done," she says, making the stitch and then getting to her feet. "And now we're going to be just a couple of old married ladies, sittin' by the fire and noddin' off, the days of our youth past and gone."
I give my own snort at that. Mairead is scarce seventeen years old, married to Ian McConnaughey for only a year now, and no less feisty than when first I laid eyes on her.
"Nay," she continues, shaking her head sadly. "The only rough sailing the renowned sailor Jacky Faber will do this night, and for many nights after this, will be in the good ship Bedstead, and won't the springs and stays of that noble craft be mightily squeakin' and squawkin' like any ship's riggin' in a lusty storm?"
I say nothing, but only smile serenely and let them prattle on, the bridesmaids teasing the bride-to-be in that time-honored fashion. I imagine Jaimy is getting the same from his groomsmen ... and a good deal coarser, if I know my men—and I think I do.
"Tsk!" says Joannie, lifting up the front of my gown. "She hasn't put on her shoes yet."
Joannie—Joannie Nichols, that is—is about the last of the Blackfriars Bridge orphans. She is the third of my bridesmaids and has been a resident at the Home for Little Wanderers for the last year or so. She is turning into a fine young woman—twelve, maybe thirteen years old now, I suspect. I sigh to think of those old days in the kip 'neath the old bridge. I visited there with Judy and Joannie a few days ago, but we found no orphan gang under there now, just a few pathetic old drunkards. We tossed them some coins and left, saddened.
I look at Joannie now, well spoken and dressed all neat, and I allow myself a bit of the sin of pride for having a part in getting her off the streets and setting her on a better path through this life.
"Just like her"—here Mairead chuckles—"to get married barefoot."
That snaps me back into the present, and I slip my feet into the delicate white pumps we had purchased only yesterday.
Something new...
This accomplished, Mairead twirls a bit of frilly cloth about her finger and says, "Keep your dress up and stick out your leg."
I do it, and she slips the pale pink garter up my right leg to snap it in place on my upper thigh. "There. That is the garter I wore to my own wedding, and I lend it to you in hopes that your man turns out to be as good as mine," she says, with a leer, "in all ways."
Something borrowed...
A little while ago Higgins had stopped by, bearing a small floral box, to give me a bit of a final fluff-up.
"So how is Jaimy?" I asked as he applied his brush. As by custom, I have not seen the bridegroom for several days—it being considered bad luck and all.
"We had the bachelor party at Mr. Fletcher's club last night. There were many toasts raised in your honor," he said, then coughed discreetly. "Many, many toasts."
"I hope you all were temperate, Higgins," I said, putting on my own Puritan face and checking for signs of alcohol excess in Higgins's face but finding none.
"Reasonably temperate, Miss. Mr. Fletcher himself did not have to be carried out."
"That is good. After all, I shall expect Mr. Fletcher to be in peak physical condition this evening." This got some low chuckles out of my attending bridesmaids.
"Very droll, Miss," said Higgins, "and as always the very soul of decorum. There, I think that is the best I can do with your hair. Now, to pin the blue ribbon back here ... Done. And, lastly, let me apply this..." With that he opens the small box he had brought in with him and pulls out a beautiful blue and white orchid, shimmery with dew. He also draws out a five-inch-long needle and, with it, attaches the bloom to my breast.
"With my compliments, Miss," said my dear Higgins, "and now I am off to Saint Paul's. Adieu, Miss. Please know you couldn't look more radiant."
The bit of blue ribbon that Higgins pinned in my hair had been given to me this morning by my grandfather, Reverend Alsop. He had come by as we were starting to get ready.
"It was one your mother wore as a child," he said, "and which I have kept over the years in memory of her. I know she would have loved to be here on this day, and I know, too, that she would be, or rather ... is ... very proud of you, my dear, for what you have done for the poor orphans of this city."
Something blue...
"Would she have been as proud of the o
ther things I have done in this life, Grandfather?" I teased, thinking of just how I got the money to pay for that orphanage, which he now runs—mainly through plunder gained from something very nearly approaching piracy on the high seas.
"Ah, now, I am but a simple country vicar and have no wish to pass judgment on any soul that spends its allotted time on this earth ... But yes ... I believe she looks down with great pride upon you, her daughter, and how you have conducted your life."
"That is sweet of you to say, Grandfather," I said, leaning over to place a kiss on his cheek, "although I know I have a few things to answer for."
"Ahem. Well, maybe it is best that the old do not know everything about the young," he said, putting his own kiss upon my brow. "And now I must be off to Saint Paul's to prepare. I wish you the best, my dear. Mr. Fletcher is a fine young man, and I know you will be very happy together. When next I see my dear granddaughter, she will be walking down the aisle toward me, and I will count it one of the happiest days of my life."
"There," says Mairead, standing. "I think we've done the best we can with all this. Let's put the veil on. It is about time for us to go."
I stand with my arms to my sides as they place the veil's coronet of intertwined posies on my head and trail the veil's gossamer cloth down my back. Before I enter the church, it will be placed over my face, to be raised only when the ceremony is complete and Jaimy lifts it up to kiss me, and Oh Jaimy, at last!
As if on cue, there is a knock on the door.
"That must be the coachman," says Mairead. "This is it, Jacky."
She plants a kiss on my cheek, hands me the bridal bouquet, and I take it as Judy picks up the train to my gown to keep it off the ground. My eyes are starting to mist up, and the door is opened, and...
...and it is not the coachman, I realize with mounting horror as I recognize who is standing there.
It is Carr and Boyd, two cold-eyed agents of the Intelligence Branch of the Royal Navy, come to take me, yet again. Behind them stand two others, who have hats pulled down over their eyes, but who are strangely familiar. Bliffil and Flashby?
Oh no!
I turn to flee, but there is no escape. Carr grabs my left arm and Boyd my right, and I am lifted from the floor and hauled off down the hallway.
"No. Pleeease, let me go!" I shriek. "Let me go!"
But they do not let me go, no, and they say not a word. They merely take the train of my gown and wrap it around and around my face to stifle my cries, and carry me out like a piece of baggage.
"Hands off her, you dogs!" I hear Mairead shout, followed by sounds of a scuffle and cries of pain; but then I hear no more.
I am once again taken.
Chapter 6
"How could you be so meeeeeean to meeeeeeee?" I keen, my hands holding what was supposed to be my bridal veil to my open mouth. Tears course down my cheeks and into the filmy white fabric. "I was going to my wedding, for God's sake! How could you be so cruuuell to meeeeeee?"
Mr. Peel, the head of British Naval Intelligence, once again stands behind Sir Thomas Grenville, First Lord of the Admiralty, who sits at his desk and gazes at me, while tapping his fingers on some papers that lie in front of him, as once again in a state of abject misery, I am seated before them. The black-suited Carr stands guard at the door, and the identically clad Boyd is at the window, to make sure I don't try that way out. And Bliffil—yes, that very same vile Alexander Bliffil—stands directly behind me, ready to shove me back down in my chair should I try to rise. And, incredibly, standing next to him is the possibly even more vile Lieutenant Harry Flashby. A part of my shattered mind realizes that the pair, indeed, were the other two men at Mairead's door not a half hour ago.
Good God, could things get any worse?
"We are afraid that that particular blessed event must be indefinitely postponed," pronounces Peel, without a great deal of sorrow in his voice. "You are going to be assigned another mission."
"Another mission?" I wail. "Haven't I done enough for you? What about my Mr. Fletcher? What must he think?" Oh Jaimy, we were so close to being united, so close! Alas, poor Jaimy, alas, poor me...
"Why don't we ask him?" Mr. Peel turns to Flashby and says, "Bring in Lieutenant Fletcher."
What? Jaimy?
Flashby opens the door and goes out while I return to full-scale bawling. The Black Cloud rolls in and I cannot stop it; I can't, I—
"Jaimy!" I exclaim, astounded upon seeing him brought in to the room. I try to rise to go to him, but Bliffil puts his hands on my shoulders and pushes me back down. He leaves his heavy hands there and squeezes hard, and I wince and cry out.
Jaimy, furious, shakes off Flashby's arm and glares at those about him, especially at Bliffil, who still has his heavy hands on my shaking shoulders.
"Just what the hell do you think you are doing?" cries Jaimy, enraged. "Get your filthy hands off her!"
Sir Grenville now speaks. "Lieutenant Fletcher. You have already been told that you are to hold your tongue when you are in this room. I am First Lord of the Admiralty and, as such, your ultimate superior officer, save the King himself. Do you understand? Good.
"We have brought you here, Mr. Fletcher, for a good reason. You will observe these proceedings, and then both you and this girl will be offered a choice. You will find out shortly exactly what that choice is, but for now you will remain silent. Now, Miss Faber, as for you..."
He turns his attention to the papers laid out before him. "Ahem. To recapitulate your rather checkered past—in 1803, Ship's Boy on HMS Dolphin, made Midshipman, found to be female. In 1804, sent to girls' school in Boston. In 1805, left said school under a cloud, soon discovered onboard HMS Wolverine, made Acting Lieutenant on that ship. Took command upon death of captain, seized prizes, relinquished command of Wolverine, departed on the bark L'Emeraude, one of the prize ships. Became known to this agency by revealing to us a spy ring she had uncovered and was given a Letter of Marque. Renamed the bark the Emerald and set sail as a privateer. The King's Treasury then discovered that she had taken four prizes and turned in only three, keeping the aforementioned Emerald for herself. The Letter of Marque was revoked and a warrant issued for her arrest. Captured off the coast of France and her ship sunk, she escaped in the confusion at the Battle of Trafalgar."
Here Grenville pauses to catch his breath and to clear his throat. Now he goes on.
"In 1806, appeared again in Boston and was briefly recaptured, but escaped again and was later found in the interior of the United States, where she interfered with British agents who were negotiating with our Indian allies in the region, causing injury to one such officer"—here he looks up at Flashby, who is looking down at me with a certain amount of pure hatred—"and the possible fatal loss of another. Several months later she was taken from her schooner, the Nancy B. Alsop, by our frigate the Dauntless. That ship, in turn, was taken by the French, and she spent some time in a French prison. Our operatives in France were able to extricate her from that place, and she was brought here and given a mission to Paris to gather information—"
"Totally against my will," I say, and sniff, looking down at the bunch of poor, wilting flowers that I still hold in my hand.
"—which mission she did accomplish, up to a point. Sometime later, she, on her own accord, got herself up in military uniform and joined the French army as a messenger. In that capacity, she delivered many messages between highranking French commanders, even those from Napoleon, himself. At the Battle of Jena, she was given a message from Bonaparte directing Marshal Murat to charge the Prussian line. She did deliver the order, Murat charged, and the day was won for France. Had she not done so, the outcome might have been very different."
He stops and looks at me severely. "Do you wonder why we sometimes grow impatient with you, Miss Faber?" I slump down further into my chair.
"To conclude—we were able to get her out of France but lost a very valuable operative in the process," he says. "And here we are. So, what do you have to say for
yourself?"
I don't say anything for a while, but then I lift my head and begin to explain.
"When I went to join the French army—to avoid being placed as a common camp-following prostitute, by this very Service, I might well add—it was my intention to volunteer as a simple messenger. I thought in that capacity I would garner much valuable information, and I was right. But instead of assigning me right off to that position, my battalion commander gave me a squad of poor country boys—raw recruits, nothing more than cannon fodder—to train as we marched toward the battlefield at Jena. I believe he did it to establish my worth as an officer. I did work with them, and I gained their respect and loyalty. They watched out for me, too, and soon I had great affection for them as well."
Here I stop and look the First Lord in the eye. "If you have ever been in a war before, my Lord, which I very much doubt, you would know what kind of affection I mean. When it comes down to it in a battle, you are not fighting for King and country, or for Emperor and empire. No, you are fighting to keep your comrades alive as best you can. When I rode across that battlefield with that message in my hand, I knew that if I did not deliver it, my men would be butchered—and I could not let that happen."
"But your mission was—" interjects Mr. Peel.
"My mission was to be a spy, sir, to gather information, which I did. I did not believe I was sent as a saboteur ... or as an assassin. If you think otherwise, then take me out and shoot me—or hang me, or cut off my head, or whatever—I don't care anymore. I have faced all those things and I just don't care anymore. You have stolen all of my joy today, so why don't you just go ahead and kill me?"
Mr. Peel regards me thoughtfully. "Did you really meet Napoleon Bonaparte?"
"Yes. I carried many messages for him. I had breakfast with him on the morning of the Battle of Jena. I rode in his carriage. He gave me a medal. I'm sure you saw it when you went through my things."
"Remarkable. You do have your ways, don't you?"
