Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber

by L. A. Meyer

  Polly speaks up. “We are mounting a production of the Merchant of Venice at your Emerald Playhouse, and I get to play Portia,” she says, looking over at me. “Couldn’t pass that up, now could I?”

  Nay, Polly, you could not, and I am so proud of you for that—for is it not true that Shakespeare is forever, while it is equally possible that handsome young men are not?

  “And, Randy,” she continues, putting those radiant blue eyes on Randall and patting his hand, “the production closes in a month, and then I will join you there and we shall sample the joys of that grand city. All right, love?”

  He nods reluctant assent, his hand gently on hers.

  Then she brings those baby blues back to me.

  “If what you have told us was the bad news, Jacky,” says Polly in her whispery, breathy way, “then, what was the good?”

  “Yes, please, Sister,” echoes Amy.

  “Ah,” I say, with the happiness plain in my voice. “I am pleased to announce that Lieutenant James Emerson Fletcher and I have worked out our differences and have reconciled, and we intend to be married upon his return from England and certain . . . political problems have been resolved.”

  “Why, that is wonderful!” gushes Polly, and Amy chimes in with, “I am so glad for you, Sister! I know that has always been your fondest wish.”

  “I agree to the match,” says Randall, nodding, as if his agreement were called for. “His steady composure should complement your impulsive nature quite nicely. Maybe he can keep a lid on your impetuosity when others have failed.”

  “How did this come about, dear?” asks Amy.

  “I saw him today, upon my return from the Caribbean. He is Second Mate on HMS Shannon, which is moored at Long Wharf. With Ezra’s connivance, a meeting was arranged and we . . . worked out our differences, and all is well between us.”

  “I imagine that little discussion was quite heated,”murmurs Randall. “Considering . . .” Randall had witnessedJaimy’s caning of me at the courthouse.

  “Yes, it was, but all was resolved to mutual satisfaction.”

  “The Shannon, eh?” says Randall, leaning back and musing. “Hmmm . . . Me on USS Chesapeake as Commander of Marines, and James Fletcher as Second Mate on HMS Shannon. It is my profound hope that our two ships never meet in battle. Things are heating up between our two countries . . .”

  “I pray that never happens,” I manage to say, horrified at the very thought of my dearest friends being forced to kill each other in a senseless war.

  “Yes, but it could . . .”

  “Well, it isn’t happening now,” I reply. “The Shannon sets sail for England tomorrow, with Lieutenant Fletcher aboard with intentions to clear up my latest mess from that end. My good Higgins and Ezra will work on it here. I, of course, will be on the lam.”

  “But where will you go?” asks Polly.

  “I’m thinking Rhode Island. They’re pretty broad-minded there and might be a little more forgiving of my ways.”

  “But why not stay here? With me?” asks Amy.

  I put my hand on hers and look into her sweet face. “Dear Amy, that would be my fondest wish, but it would be the first place they would look. Have you not heard of a certain series of books written about me and my wanton ways? Even police can read, you know.”

  “Oh,” she says meekly, being the authoress of said potboilers.

  “And in regard to that, if anyone comes looking for me here, please tell the truth: I came here today, stayed overnight, and then pushed off in my boat. You cannot afford to be caught in a lie, because I’m sure you realize that you could get in big trouble, all of you. Yes, the truth is best . . . You could even say that I had mentioned Providence, RhodeIsland. It’s a big town, and I could easily hide there till this ridiculous thing blows over.”

  “This ‘ridiculous thing’ you mention, Jacky,” saysRandall, “could the end of it result in a certain person being hanged by her delicate little neck? Hmmm?”

  “Well, yes, Randall, it usually does, doesn’t it?”

  Both Amy and Polly gasp. Randall does not. He only looks into his empty glass. “Hmm . . . Then you must be very careful.”

  “I am always careful, Randall. You know that.”

  That gets me a good snort all around.

  “Well, I am,” I retort, slightly miffed. “But for now, let us forget idle troubles, and repair to the music room for some merriment and song! Let us banish all care!”

  “Hear, hear!” is the answer from my companions as we all rise to go. I notice that Randall grabs the bottle on his way.

  We belted out every song we each knew. Randall introduced us to some raunchy barracks ballads he had picked up from his time in the service of the U.S. Marine Corps. Polly blushed prettily at those tunes—in a very charming way—but I am sure she could produce those rosy cheeks on cue, as she is an excellent actress. I, too, did work up a blush, but it was difficult, my knowing that I knew a lot worse in the way of the vile and obscene.

  But after all was sung and danced, it was time for bed, and Polly and Randall headed off for theirs, while Amy and I off to hers.

  As we wash up before sleep, Amy offers me a nightshirt, but I demur, saying, “Nay, Sister, I’d best stay in these. There is not much of a chance, but we might have unfriendly visitors. Move over . . .” and soon we are wrapped around each other and falling into peaceful sleep—peaceful for her, any­way . . .

  I dream I am on the back of my dear Mathilde, galloping across a large green meadow on a glorious, sunlit day without a cloud in the sky, and I am riding beside my beloved Jaimy Fletcher, dimly aware that we are on a fox hunt. He looks glorious in his lieutenant’s jacket of blue, and I am supremely happy. Seeking to embrace him, I forget about the bloody fox hunt and urge Mathilde to the side of his mount and lean toward him . . .

  But suddenly another rider comes up between us, forcing us apart . . . Wot . . . ?

  I turn to my left and see that it is none other than Cavalry Major Lord Richard Allen, looking equally gorgeous in his deep scarlet regimentals, all red and gold and fine.

  “Come, Princess!” he calls, his white teeth gleaming around a long black cheroot. “Can you not hear the huntsman’s call?”

  Indeed, I do . . . Arrrroooo! Loud and clear in the distance.

  “They must have spied the fox! I’ll race you to that hedgerow, Prettybottom! Away!”

  Arrrooooo!

  But then yet another comes up and slides between Lord Allen and me. It is Clarissa Worthington Howe, riding sidesaddle on her mighty horse Jupiter. She smiles upon the both of us.

  “No, Richard,” she says. “It is I whom you shall race to that row of trees. I am sure we will be the first upon the fox!”

  Arrrrooooo!

  “Tally-ho, then!” says Allen, spurring his horse forward and leaping ahead, not to be denied his place at the kill.

  Arrrooooo!

  Clarissa comes up beside me and leans over, holding up her left hand to me. On it is a large ring.

  “Say it, Jacky, say it,” she says, her cold blue eyes shining with a devilish light. “Say it.”

  “Never!” I cry. “Never shall I say that!”

  “Oh, but someday you shall, darling Jacky,” she says with a laugh as she spurs off to overtake Richard Allen. “Someday you most certainly shall!”

  “Let them go,” I say to my faithful Jaimy, who still rides by my side. “I’d rather be with you than anyone in the world. Come kiss me, love.”

  The day continues, lovely and quiet and warm, and Mathilde is changed in that way that dreams will into my dear gentle Gretchen from back at the Lawson Peabody. I lean over and nuzzle my nose into Jaimy’s thick dark hair and prepare for his sweet kiss and . . .

  Arrrooooo!

  Then my eyes fly open and I suddenly realize that I have been nuzzling my nose into the hair behind the ear of Amy Trevelyne and not that of Jaimy Fletcher, and that sound of the hunter’s horn is real! It is Edward’s warning trumpet and I must fly
!

  I leap out of bed, gather up my oilskins—thanking God that I had slept in my sailor togs—plant a kiss on Amy’s drowsy cheek, and say, “Goodbye, Sister,” and I am through the door, down the stairs, and out the back, racing down the path to my waiting Evening Star.

  There is the sound of galloping horses and shouting back at the great house, and I see torches being lit. Then someone yells, “There she goes!” and rifles are fired—pok! pok! pok! The dust behind me is pelted with angry bullets, but they don’t hit me, for I am too far ahead. I manage to reach the boathouse unharmed and leap, breathless, into my Star. I throw off the lines, raise the sail, and grab the tiller.

  A puff of welcome breeze and I am off to sea . . . Let them shout and let them shoot; they can’t catch me here . . .

  Part II

  Chapter 6

  Plymouth is a very pleasant, well laid-out port, with many places of business, nautical or otherwise, arrayed along Water Street, which runs along the ends of the wharves and piers that jut out into the harbor. I think I shall like it here.

  Sailing in, I had found a good tie-up for the Star, in a nest of similar small working boats bobbing alongside a floating dock, so didn’t have to pay anything for the mooring, which is good. I am wearing my money belt, but in my haste to leave Boston, I didn’t have time to properly stuff it with coin of the local realm, and I expect it to grow even thinner as I go along. Oh, well, I do have my pennywhistle, if it comes to that.

  Pulling my seabag out of the cowling, I stuff my ordinary seaman’s cap inside and take out my midshipman’s hat and cram it on my head, figuring I’ll get a bit more respect than if sporting the cap of a common swab. My oilskins still cover the rest of me, and yes, it’s still drizzling. So off I go in search of dry lodging and, ultimately, some worthy employment as a cover for my being here in this town as a single female.

  Seabag on shoulder, I trudge up First Street, which takes its origin from Water Street and leads into the center of the town, glad to see up ahead the sign for the Tail and Spout Inn. It displays a blowing white whale against a blue background and words below that, promising food, drink, and lodging. Before I enter, I reach down and pick up a little mud with my forefinger and run it across the bridge of my nose, to show that I’ve run into some hard traveling on the way here, and for sure, I have seen that. Then I adjust my middy cap and go in.

  It is a cheerful, welcoming place with maybe ten small tables and one big one running down the center, with a large fireplace at the end—unlit because it is the end of June and quite warm. A bar runs along the other end of the room, and a woman sure to be the landlady is doling out foaming tankards of suds to a chubby and cheerful serving girl, who carries them to the tables. There are quite a few customers in the place, too—a table with four seamen grouped around, and another with what look to be merchant officers. Hmmm—I notice some swarthy tattooed fellows off in a corner, their harpoons leaning against the wall. Most of the men are smoking their vile pipes, and there is a thick layer of smoke hovering next to the ceiling. Another table of four NewEngland seamen is lustily singing “The Black Ball Line.” You can tell they’re Yankee sailors, ’cause their hair is cut short behind, unlike the Brits and Irish, who wear their hair long, in pigtails, like mine. Their rendition of the fine old song is met with approval from those within, as there are cheers and whistles when they end. I wish I could join in, but alas, I cannot, for I must lie low.

  Well, the place seems right cozy to me, so I march my sodden self up to the landlady and say in my deepest voice, “I’d like a room for the night, Missus. A single, if you please.”

  “A single it is, lad, and ain’t you a fine-lookin’ young sailor boy,” she says, reaching back for one of the keys that hang on the wall behind her. “A half dollar a night, in advance.”

  These inns not only rent out single and double rooms, to those what can afford ’em, but also mere bed space—like in three or four blokes to a mattress—and there’s no way I want that big Samoan harpooner over there throwing his heavy leg over me in the middle of the night. He must be three hundred pounds if he’s an ounce.

  I dig my finger under my oilskin and into my money belt and pull out the required coin, and she delivers the key. “Top o’ stairs, first door to the right, number seven.”

  I shoulder my seabag and head up.

  Number 7 is indeed a single—and not much more than that—a narrow bed and a washstand and room enough only to stand and turn around. But it sure looks like home to this weary traveler. The door opens inward, so I plant my wedges, peel off my ’skins and the rest of my damp sailor togs, and fall across the bed for a delicious afternoon nap . . . Oh, yes . . .

  Later, I arise refreshed, then wash up and put on my midshipman’s uniform—blue jacket, white trousers—my sword Esprit, snug in her harness, my cap back on head. “There,” I pronounce, looking at myself in the washstand mirror, every inch a proud midshipman in His Majesty’s Service. It’s time to head back downstairs in search of some food, drink, and maybe some information.

  On my way to an open table, I ask of the landlady, “Pardon, Missus, but where might I buy a newspaper?”

  She looks me over yet again. “Royal Navy, eh? If’n I’d known that, I’d have charged you double for the room.”

  Startled, I stammer, “I-I’m sorry to cause you distress, Mum, but . . .”

  She barks out a short laugh. “Nay, Old Gert’s just foolin’. All sailors are welcome at the Whale. When the cruel water closes over a poor seaman’s head for the last time, it don’t matter what he is—Yankee, Blackamoor, Hottentot, or Royal Navy—it’s all the same hard swallow. Sit yerself down, lad, and Bessie’ll see to yer needs . . . and here’s a paper some bloke left. It’ll save you yer nickel.”

  Gratefully, I take up the rolled paper and head for my table. The aforementioned Bessie appears by my side and soon a mug of cool ale is in my fist. Careful not to look too ladylike by crossing my ankles demurely, I affect a male posture by crossing my legs, left foot resting on right knee, then lean back and open the paper.

  I turn to the Help Wanted section and avidly read.

  Hmmm . . . Plenty of ads for sailors—can’t do that, not now, too obvious. Whalers, too—but that’s a nasty business, plus I’d be gone too long—and for chambermaids . . . well, if nothing else turns up, maybe. The ropewalk, all quarter-mile of it, is hiring, but that’s rougher work than I want right now . . . Ha! Here’s just the thing! I’ll do it, by God, first thing in the morning, and . . .

  And dark shapes suddenly appear by my side. I look up to see two Royal Navy lieutenants in full rig—navy blue jackets with gold buttons and lace trim, blue trousers with sword belts strapped on, and fore-and-aft cocked hats. Uh-oh . . .

  I shoot to my feet, case my eyes, and hit a brace. I stand there rigid with fear, my mind racing . . . What the hell now? Damn!

  But I am somewhat relieved to feel a friendly hand on my shoulder as one of them says, “Nay, lad, let us not stand on ceremony here on terra firma. It is good to find a fellow member of our service here in goddamn Yankeeland.” They both sit down, one to either side of me.

  Even in my confusion, I know they are glad there are no United States naval officers in the room, because of the tensions building between our countries. Every officer wears a sword, even me, and one wrong word and . . .

  “I am Lieutenant Mitchell,” the older and obviously more senior of the two says, “and this is Mr. Tull, both of HMS Endymion, First and Third Officers. Tell us your name, boy, and sit down and let us enjoy what this inn has to offer. We’ll all be back at sea soon enough.”

  Who shall I be? My mind searches about for a plausible lie. Ah! Yes! He’s got to be half a world away!

  “M-Midshipman Tom Wheeler,” I stammer, signaling for Bessie to bring these worrisome gents some drink. She winks and nods. “If it pleases you, Sir.”

  “It pleases me well enough, Mr. Wheeler,” says the older man. And as the tankards are placed on the table,
he says, “And that pleases me even more. Thank you, lad . . .”

  Long drafts are drunk, followed by heartfelt ahhhhhs, and then we fall into that old game that long-parted sailors have played since ancient mariners plowed the wine-dark Adriatic Sea . . . Alexandrus! Apollo be praised! A glass of grappa with you! I haven’t seen your dried-up carcass since the Siege of Syracuse! Vale Agrippa! Good to see you, and aye, what a mess that was—damned Greeks with their tricks! There I was, pulling my oar on the Helena, and the sail of our galley suddenly goes up in flame! Never again, I swear! Didn’t pay me, neither, curse ’em all to Hades! Demetrius? No, ain’t seen ’im since Troy . . . Hey, check out the amphorae on Athena over there . . . Athena, darling! Another round!

  “So, young Mr. Wheeler, tell us where last you have shipped and whom you have met,” says Lieutenant Tull, signaling for another round.

  “Well, Sir,” I say, having had a bit of time to come up with a plausible lie, “I was lately billeted on the Shannon, but I was sent off by the Captain with a last-minute message to a person here in Plymouth—”

  “Probably a letter to his American mistress,” mutters Mr. Mitchell.

  “—and so missed her departure from Boston. I am to rejoin the ship in London, but since I knew there were no Royal Navy ships currently in Boston, I figured I’d take a coach to New York to see if I can catch a ride on one of our ships moored there, and so back to England.”

  “Put your mind at rest, Midshipman Wheeler,” says Mr. Mitchell, “for you shall travel with us back to New York by coach in the morning. I am sure our captain, Simms, will offer you a berth for the return journey. After all, what’s one squeaker, more or less. You certainly don’t look like you eat much.”

  “No, Sir, I do not, and I thank you for your kind offer,” I reply, never for a second intending to be on that coach in the morning.