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

by L. A. Meyer

  “Your names?”

  “Tad and Jerry, Miss,” chokes out the less shy one. “Cousins.”

  “And joo both can ride? Do not lie, now,” I warn. “You vill be put in lion cage eef you are found out.”

  “Yessum. Both bareback and saddle. Can handle a rig, too.” They are loose-limbed and lanky, and are about fifteen years old.

  “Do joo know all zee farms hereabout? Zee ones who raise and fight zee gamecocks?”

  “Yessum.”

  “Goot. Report to Mr. O’Rourke—he ees zee beeg man over zere in zee round hat. He ees zee boss of zee roustabouts, of wheech you are now members,” I say, watching their skinny chests rise and fall in joyful anticipation of a new and much more exciting life. “Zen go to Señora Elena’s tent to get fitted for your red-striped shirts. Zen hop on two of our horses and ride to zee three nearest gamecock farms and tell zem of za center ring at our Beeg Top with eets fine and level sawdust. Zey shall never fight zere cocks in a finer arena, I promise eet. Three or four days from now, zey vill be informed. Prizes, too. Now go and do eet.”

  Do it they do, barely able to contain their excitement. “Boy howdy, Tad! New shirts!” I hear them exclaim as I head off for the next chore: the design and construction of the torches to light up all this stuff when night falls. A peek in our supplies reveals that we have some stout bamboo sticks that will serve. “Make it so, Mr. O’Rourke!” And so he does. He is a most valuable man . . . quite well constructed, too, I might add. But never mind that, you. Ahem! There is work to be done here, girl, so go do it.

  The whole of the circus throws itself into the midway project, and that includes the artistes. The De Graff sisters, Gretchen and Heidi, both Germanic beauties, cheerfully set up for children’s short rides on their magnificent stallions, and Mahmud decorated up Gargantina to her very best. There are many long strands of bright beads cascading from the edges of a small Persian carpet on her back as well as from a golden crown that rests on her head. She looksmagnificent! And Señora Elena is ready to go with the tarot and the fortunetelling, and even my proud Marcello has agreed to man the simple throw-the-ball-and-knock-over-the-stuffed-cats game to win a prize for your lovely ragazza.

  There is one who will not participate in all this, and that is the animal trainer, Herr Udo von Arndt, pronouncing that it’s beneath him. Fine, Mr. von Arndt, just take care of your tigers and stay out of our way. I am coming to profoundly dislike the man, a distaste that I find is shared by many around me.

  But never mind that, for what should pull into the back lot but a coach-and-four. A door opens, and out steps my dear John Higgins. Oh, joy! And then the rear door swings wide and Enoch Lightner, the Shantyman, emerges, he of the deep baritone and vast knowledge of music and sound, and master of the fiddle, with his ever-present white cloth band drawn across his sightless eyes.

  “Oh, John, thank you for coming! We have so much to discuss! And Enoch, so good of you to join us! And who’s this?”

  A dark-haired girl in her mid-twenties, as far as I can tell, tumbles out behind him, bearing a fiddle case and a bright smile.

  “Eliza, Miss,” she says, holding out her hand in a no-nonsense way. “Eliza Lightner.”

  “Welcome, Missus Lightner,” I say, taking her hand and smiling back at her. “I thought our Mr. Lightner looked a good deal neater than when last I saw him.” His coat is brushed, as is his unruly black hair.

  He grins good-naturedly at the female sport being made of him. “She admired my singing of ‘Captain Wedderburn’s Courtship,’ and so loved my rendition of ‘Cuckoo’s Nest’ that she ended up in my bed that very night,” he says, getting his own back at us.

  “Aye, and we was married the next day,” retorts this Eliza. “And now I’ve got to unpack.” She goes to the trunk and begins to pull out luggage, which includes many music cases and, most prominently, a large drum. Ah, yes, the Shantyman’s trademark.

  I spot Mr. Barrow, a disagreeable dwarf who is also our wagon master.

  “Meester Bar-row. Eef you please. Vee vill need accomadations for three—vun single vagon, vun double.”

  He casts me a surly look. “It don’t please me none at all. But, well, I guess you’re the boss of this mess, so I’ll move some things around. Kick out a few clowns. Serve ’em right. Gimme an hour.”

  And he goes off, grumbling. Oh well, I guess Rigger finds him useful . . .

  If I had thought the coach was empty of riders, I was wrong. The door on the other side slams, and who should come about to greet me, arms held wide, red hair blazing, but . . .

  Mairead?

  Chapter 25

  If I thought I could just collapse into helpless joy at seeing my dear Irish companion and sometimeSister-in-Arms, I was wrong, for there is much to be done.

  “Come, friends, into my wagon to refresh yourselves, and then we must talk business.”

  We pile into my wagon, and though it is a bit cramped, we all manage to get in. Mairead and I hop on my bed, with giggles and pokes; Eliza is given my chair at the dressing table, while Higgins and the Shantyman prefer to stand. Higgins, of course, opens and pours the wine. (Yes, I do tend to keep a stock of claret around to calm the Faber nerves at times.) And soon each hand has a glass of wine grasped in it—that is, after my fastidious friend has taken each glass, squinted at it, and then polished it to his satisfaction with an impeccable white handkerchief he pulls from his vest pocket, a piece of cloth that I know for sure has never been even close to his nose.

  There is a knock on the open door’s frame and our fine chef, Enrico, hands in a tray of cannolis. Ah, grazie, Enrico, and we lay to on those delicious treats.

  “Interesting accommodations, Miss,” Higgins says, lifting one of the pastries to his lips and his aforementioned nose to the breeze flowing through my open windows.

  “Yes, John, somewhat like our digs on the Belle of the Golden West on our trip down the Mississippi. That was rather cramped as well, you might recall,” I retort. “Do you like what I’ve done with it?”

  “I recall that the Mississippi River smelled a good deal better than this,” he retorts, without commenting on my decorating efforts.

  “You’ll get used to it, dear John. You have gotten used to a lot more than that in your unfortunate association with my poor wayward self.”

  I realize what an assault to his cultured nose the combination of tiger, lion, and elephant manure just might be. “But now I must put the entire situation before you, and here is the part you are to play. You must ride to our next town, which is Wareham, and meet with the town council there to renegotiate the original contract. They are expecting only the circus, and not the midway we are constructing outside, with its somewhat more . . . exotic offerings. In other words, we will need permission to operate the gaming wheel, the beer bar, the exotic music, and, er . . . dancing? Plus, you’ve got to take money to pay for the original two-hundred-dollar rent on their miserable patch of dusty ground. I assume you’ve got some money?”

  He nods and taps his jacket pocket. “Fifteen hundred dollars. It’s all Mr. Pickering could spare from FaberShipping right now.”

  “Should cover us for a while, till we get the midway up and running; that is, if we are allowed to run it. These stiff-necked Puritan Yankees, you know . . .”

  “Yes, Miss,” he says, dusting himself off and preparing to leave on his mission. “I know them well. ‘Stiff necked,’ yes, but also very . . . practical. I know what to do and say. And what shall be my official position at this . . . establishment?”

  “I guess General Factotum of the Montessori andMattucci Grand Circus should serve.”

  “Sounds impressive,” he says, following with a sniff, visibly unimpressed. “Till later, then. Adieu.”

  After Higgins departs on his mission, I put the fake accent back on my lips and take the others on a tour of the grounds, introducing them to the circus folk, both human and animal, and pointing out what their duties will be—music, lots of it, and loud!
/>   “We can handle that,” says the Shantyman, grinning, and I know that to be true, having heard his drum and stentorian voice from one end of the Lorelei Lee to the other, all two hundred and ten feet of her.

  I get Mairead to pet Balthazar’s nose, but Eliza will have none of it. She does put a timorous hand on sweetGargantina’s trunk. I have brought along a sack of peanuts, and all delight in feeding her, feeling the gentle touch of her long nose on the palms of our hands as she gently picks the peanuts up and places them in her pink mouth.

  We are not delighted, however, by the tiger cage and the two who stand next to it—Herr Udo von Arndt and his assistant, Emil Mussler. This Mussler is a slimy piece of work. He’s not a roustabout or O’Rourke would have thrown him out long ago; no, his job is cleaning up after the big striped beasts and rounding up enough raw meat for them.

  The tigers roar as we approach, making us each take a step back, which brings an arrogant smile to the thin lips of von Arndt. He suffers the introductions with ill grace, merely lifting his whip to his hat and then turning away.

  “He doesn’t feed them till just before the show, so they don’t eat him when he steps into the cage. Pity, that, as I do not like the man,” I mutter, and I especially don’t like the way he looks at me . . . and now Mairead. “But come, I believe your wagon is ready, and you can settle in for a bit of well-needed rest.”

  They do not argue.

  It goes without saying that Mairead will bunk with me. She has been, at odd times, a runaway from her father, a stowaway on my privateer Emerald, and a fellow convict on my Lorelei Lee, bound for a long stretch in an Australian prison. She is presently Matron of Women onboard the Lee, now a profitable passenger ship, having completed many safe crossings of the big salt twixt Ireland and the United States. Her often irate father, Liam Delaney, is now the Captain of the aforementioned Lorelei Lee, and her beloved husband, Ian McConnaughey, is now First Mate of her. The ship, not the lass, oh, no. No one is master of her.

  Ensconced in my wagon, we joyously recount old times—Back on an elly-phant again, Jacky! Just like that time in Bombay! I can’t believe it!—and we wait for Higgins’s return.

  We do not have to wait long. Soon after five in the afternoon, as we all settle down for a fine dinner at Enrico’s newly expanded food cart, Higgins reappears, apparently somewhat pleased with himself.

  “Well,” he says, “it appears we shall be allowed to open our midway. Yes, on with the music, the silly carnival games, the animal rides, and the cockfighting—provided one of the councilor’s cocks be allowed to enter without paying an entry fee. Yes, too, on the gambling, with the proviso that the First Congregational Church of Wareham will get ten percent of the profits from the Chuck-a-Luck Wheel. And I was informed that their constable will be present and keeping a stern eye on the proceedings, of that we might be sure. No, however, on the exotic dancing, but yes, surprisingly, on the liquid bar. All in all, an extra two hundred dollars.”

  I nod at this. A stiff tariff, yes, but it will allow us to open. In truth, I am somewhat relieved on the dancing thing because I haven’t worked that out yet.

  “Good work, John. Pray, seat yourself and have some of Enrico’s excellent osso buco.”

  “In a moment, Miss,” says Higgins. “But first, as factotum of this fine outfit, I must go visit the owner, to see if he can help out with some of this expense.”

  “Good luck with that.” I snort. “But you can give it a try.”

  We are joined by Marcello Grimaldi, who gives his mustachio an extra twist while casting his eye on the two new girls, and we all fall to our delicious dinner.

  Presently, Higgins returns, looking, I must say, a trifle nonplussed, which is rather unusual for him. He is holding a sheaf of papers. He shrugs and comes to stand before me. After a short formal bow, he says, “I believe I am addressing the new owner of the Montessori and Mattucci Grand Circus.”

  Wot . . . ?

  “It is true, Miss. Signor Mattucci is an old man and he is tired of the financial worry. He will keep his old job of ringmaster, which he loves, but he has sold the rest of the circus to Faber Shipping Worldwide, for the sum of five hundred dollars.”

  Wot . . . ?

  My fork falls in my plate. “The whole thing for five hundred dollars?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “And Faber Shipping now owns an elephant?”

  “I believe those will be the first words out of Attorney Pickering’s astounded mouth,” says Higgins. “However, Miss, there is not much to this organization in the way of assets—just some tents, horses, a stack of posters, ropes, supplies . . . and some considerable debts . . . payrolls and all, which we will have to assume. Many of the acts own their own wagons and equipment, so you see there is not much here.”

  “It is enough, and we will make it pay,” I say, rising. “Shantyman. Muster the crew.”

  He stands and places a light hand on his wife’s arm and she leads him over to the big drum that was set up in the center of the back lot. Eliza places the drumsticks in his palm, and he commences to pound, and it gets everybody’s instant attention. Then he throws back his great head and roars . . .

  “HEAR YE, HEAR YE! ALL HANDS TO QUARTERS! CAPTAIN’S CALL!”

  If the circus people did not fully understand the nature of that order, they managed to get the gist of it, for soon they are all grouped around me, muttering among themselves and looking mighty quizzical—Captain? What Captain?

  I flutter my hands, signaling for silence, and when they quiet down, I say, “I haf an announcement to make: I am now zee owner of zee Montessori and Mattucci GrandCircus . . .”

  There is a gasp as I hold up the bill of sale and wave it about, but the noise subsides as I continue.

  “. . . and all vill remain in zeir jobs as before. Thees ees Meester John Higgins. He vill be taking over zee runnink of zee circus.” Higgins gives a slight bow on that.

  “What about this so-called midway we’ve been building?”

  I look over to see that it was Rigger O’Rourke who spoke. He stands, arms crossed, my first challenge.

  “Goot news, Rigger,” I reply. “I haf just received news zat zee midway has been au-thor-iz-ed in Ware-ham. Ve vill break camp and move zere tomorrow and open zee next day! Shall vee haf a cheer?”

  I get one, but it’s pretty weak. Still, I continue . . .

  “. . . and as vee can plainly see, vee haf another few hours of daylight left, so shall vee all get back to vork?”

  The next cheer is even weaker.

  Later, as deep night falls, Mairead and I are snugged up in my bed, giggling away like any two schoolgirls.

  After a while, we grow quiet and Mairead’s eyes fall on my miniature portrait of Jaimy, which hangs on the wall next to my bunk.

  “Have you done it yet?” she asks. “You and him, I mean?”

  “Done what?”

  “You know . . .” She gives me a nudge and a leer.

  “Oh, that . . . well, no. Things got in the way, sort of . . .”

  “You might give it a shot. It’s rather fun, you know. People have been doing it for years.”

  “Makes babies, too, I hear . . .”

  “Oh, yes, the Irish, especially. Can’t grow potatoes? Grow babies instead. Lots of ’em. Ha! You watch, we micks’ll cover the world someday!”

  “Yes, about those babies . . .”

  “Oh. The Queen of the Ocean Sea is scared of that?”

  “No, but they might get in her way.”

  That gets me a shove. “You hard thing, you, to deny babies into this world just to satisfy your own selfish nature.”

  “’Tis a hard world. Why should the wee ones suffer? Especially in hanging around with someone like me for a mother. Huh! Wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

  “Och, Jacky, I don’t think you’d be all that bad as a mum.”

  Eventually, the talk trails off and she falls asleep, with my nose buried in her red mane, but slumber does not come so easi
ly for me, as it has been a very exciting day. My restless eyes fall on my picture of Jaimy . . .

  Hello, Jaimy, I’m just lying here, thinking of you, and wondering what would have happened if I had I simply stowed away on the Shannon that day in Boston instead of running off to Plymouth as I did. No, no, dear, not my usual way of getting aboard a ship, as a girl disguised as boy—I’d be discovered right off, as I’ve gone much too famous by now. No, I mean as an actual stowaway, lurking about in the lower decks till we were gone far enough so that the Captain could not turn back . . . and then what would Lieutenant JamesEmerson Fletcher have found in his cabin about three days out? Could it be a small girl in her black burglar gear lying in his bed? What a delight to soothe the soul of a poor sailor when far away at sea! And maybe the Captain would agree to marry us, even. I would not mind being confined to quarters, that is, if they were your quarters, dear one. Ummmm . . . what a trip that would be, oh, yes! We’d blow the porthole out of your cabin, that’s for sure.

  Maybe your wicked girl could show you some new tricks, hmmm, Jaimy? Now, now, you be good, you. Jaimy is a gentleman, even though you ain’t a lady, and you should go to sleep now. Enough of your silly fantasies. Big day tomorrow.

  G’night, luv.

  Chapter 26

  Journal of Amy Trevelyne

  Dovecote Farm

  Quincy, Massachusetts

  Dear Reader,

  We have found that Miss Faber has now joined a circus as an aerialist—why I expected any less, I do not know.

  Ezra feels that she is sufficiently deep in disguise, and so we might venture downstate to see the show. After all, Mr. Higgins and others have already joined her there at her request. I certainly hope she was wise in that decision—common sense is not one of her strong suits.

  The war fever continues unabated in New England, the flames of war being relentlessly fanned by our so-calledgentle­men of the press.

  I count the days till I see my dear sister once again. I wait with bated breath.