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

by L. A. Meyer

  I sit back up.

  “Well, maybe it would . . .” I say, considering his past history in that regard. “But maybe it would not,” I continue in a wicked sultry voice, “after I gave him a private performance. A very private one.”

  “If I might intrude on this charming display of schoolgirl merriment . . . I would feel much better, Miss,” advises Higgins, “if you had a more secure place to keep the circus treasury.” Rigger nods agreement, but I am not convinced as to the wisdom of that.

  “Now, Higgins, I have traveled with a band of Roma, and took personal instruction from Queen Bubya Nadya Vadoma, bless her old Gypsy soul . . .”

  He has separated the money into stacks of coins and paper money. He has at hand a properly sized leather bag into which he dumps the coins. The bills are placed in a separate wallet and then thrust into the same bag, the sturdy drawstring tightened and taut.

  “. . . And I know how to hide stuff. Find stuff, too.”

  However, I do not get to hide anything . . . including myself, as two shotgun barrels are thrust into the open door.

  I gasp in astonishment. Wot?

  “Is this a private party, or may we also attend? My small friend here thought we might not be velcome,” hisses Herr Udo von Arndt, smiling through his teeth as he and Emil Mussler enter my wagon. “O’Rourke! Put the pistol on the floor. I see it is not cocked, so you can do nussing. However, one false move and I shall shoot that girl over there and her chest shall match her hair. Emil! Tie up the girl! No, not that one! The Russkie, idiot!”

  “Yes, boss,” says Mussler, von Arndt’s slimy little underling, leaning his gun against the wall and advancing on me, a short length of rope in his fist.

  “You. Russian bitch. Get up. You’re coming with us.”

  “What?” protests Higgins. “What for? You’ve got the money! Why take the girl?”

  I shrink back and try to disappear.

  “Sit down, big man,” he says, “or I shall blow your leg off.” Higgins sits. “I vill explain to you as soon as my man has accomplished his simple task. Move, damn you!” Emil is hurried in said task by his master’s boot.

  Thus encouraged, Mussler puts down his shotgun and reaches over and grabs me by the throat and drags me forward. The dwarf is small, but his hands are huge and his arms are strong. I have no choice but to follow along. As he ties my hands in front of me, the front of the cloak falls open and I am exposed.

  “Ha! The harlot has no clothes. Good. Nussing to dispose of if she goes to the tigers.” Satisfied with the dwarf’s progress, the obviously self-satisfied von Arndt goes on to explain.

  “It is because I haf need of a hostage, and the so-called owner of this circus vill do,” he continues. “You see, there are four roads leading out of here, and I could be taking any of them—to Boston, to Philadelphia, to New York, toBaltimore. I know your man O’Rourke here will attempt hot pursuit and I can’t shoot you all, much as I would enjoy that. If he happens to choose the right road, I’ll need a hostage. If I notice anyone following me out of here now, I will kill her. My tigers are very hungry. Hear them roar? Very hungry, as they haf not been fed for several days. They will devour the wretch in a moment, with no trace, except for a bit of blood, which any investigator would assume was drippings from the horse meat the tigers usually eat. Except the drippings will have come from her. A lovely thought, hmm? And don’t forget that both Mussler and I are well armed. I am telling you all this so you will think twice about following me. Understand?” He points the barrel of his shotgun at Rigger’s forehead.

  Rigger says nothing to that, but merely glares at the German, his eyes full of level rage. This ain’t over yet, you kraut-eating son of a bitch!

  Seeing that Emil Mussler has finished tying my hands, von Arndt growls, “Goot. Go out and bring the wagon to the door. Now.”

  As the little man sidles out the door, the German places his hand on the fat money bag—And could we have made it any easier for the rat bastard?—saying with a big smile, “Ah, ja, dis gelt vill hold me in very goot stead, wherever I go.”

  Having made his point, von Arndt waves his barrel around by way of emphasis, pointing it in each remaining face in my once safe and comforting little wagon.

  He picks up the end of my tether and hauls my despairing self roughly out the door and into yet another dark and fearful night.

  Udo von Arndt has planned well. The dwarf brings the tiger wagon neatly up to my door and I am thrown onto the driver’s seat between him and the mastermind of this plot. Unlike the usual position of the low seat of a buckboard, these circus wagons have the seats placed up high so that the one sitting there can make sure that all below is secure. What I can see as I look back is a small, three-foot-square hatch, with latch, which I know is used to drop raw meat down to Hans and Fritz, ’cause no one wants to open one of the bottom doors to feed that angry pair.

  Von Arndt takes the reins, and we are off.

  It gives me a shiver to think of myself disappearing down that hole, but I’ve got other things to think about . . .

  We have not rumbled more than five miles down the highway when we come to a crossroads and von Arndt takes the right turn, which I know leads to New York. The road is hard and the wagon will leave no tracks that can be traced.

  Damn! If I could but leave a marker for those who will follow, but alas, I cannot, for I have nothing! I am helpless!

  Helpless, yes, but not without work to do. Under cover of the cloak, I work away at the binding on my wrists with the unbound tips of my fingers. It would go better if I could bring my teeth to bear, but they would catch me at that, so I cannot. Still, I pick away with frantic fingernails at the loose knot that the hasty Emil had tied. No sailor he, that’s for sure.

  Another three miles down the road and von Arndt’s head jerks up. He has heard something! Horses’ hooves pounding! Riders shouting!

  “Damn! They are right behind us!” he yells. “We’ve got to get rid of the girl! Shove her down the hatch! Now!”

  “Yes, Boss,” says Mussler, grabbing me and pinning my upper arms tightly to my chest. Then he notices. “Boss, her hands are loose!”

  “Doesn’t matter, fool! Just get her down to zem, and the cats vill take care of her. Meanwhile, I vill slow down those who dare follow!”

  With that, he turns, reins wrapped around his left fist, and with his right hand, he gets off a blind shot behind us with his shotgun. I hear no cry of anguish from either horse nor man, so I perceive that no one was hit by the scatter shot. I do sense, though, that it has slowed down my gallant posse a bit.

  Emil Mussler, however, is having a bit of trouble shoving me down that particular rabbit hole, now that my hands are free—my lower arms, anyway. He still has my upper arms pinned as he wrestles me toward that dreaded hatch.

  In spite of my struggles, he manages to get my head and shoulders shoved into the hole. Damn! So strong! I feel the horrid swish of a tiger paw sweep past my cheek. Another inch and he’ll snag me and pull me down!

  Higgins’s cloak flies out behind me, its button still firmly fastened to my neck, the dwarf still attached to me, and I can no longer prevent my descent into that hellhole. My fingers loosen and I fall to my doom . . .

  But it is not in quite the way I imagined it, for Mussler, more terrified of his master than he is of the tigers, continues to hold me tight to him.

  We do not fall to the floor of the cage, however, for on our desperate way down through the hatch, my heavy cloak has caught its hem on the hatch hinge and remains securely hooked up there.

  As a consequence, both I and my clinging dwarf are brought to a swift halt in midair, dangling above two very hungry Bengal tigers; Mussler by his hands, me by my poor neck . . .

  I can’t breathe! Good God, I can’t breathe! His . . . his arms are too strong!

  But before I pass completely out of this world, finally hanged for all my crimes and depredations, I receive some unbidden aid from Hans and Fritz, who conveniently bury t
wo pairs of merciless claws into the back of Emil Mussler, him being the one facing the beasts, thanks to the swinging of the cloak. He lets go of me with a scream of . . .

  Boss! Boss! Help me! Help . . .

  But he receives scant pity from his boss. The only reply we hear from von Arndt is the sound of the overhead trap door being kicked shut by his boot. That’s one less to split the money with, I am sure he figures, and one to blame the whole stupid mess on should he be caught with my blood on his hands. Whatever the reason, that’s as far as his underling gets in this world. I hear a final whimper and then the sounds of bones cracking.

  But the fate of one miserable dwarf is the least of my worries right now, as I am still strangling in that cloak, legs kicking and flailing wildly in the air. Now that Mussler’s arms have released mine, and my poor neck does not have to bear his weight, I am able to get my fingers to that very strong button. Don’t pass out now, girl! One more moment! There! It’s done, and I fall to the floor, gasping.

  Well, I ain’t gonna hang after all, but I’ve still got two very big problems, and one of them is looking right at me.

  I carefully, carefully, scoot farther back in the corner and test the width of the space twixt the bars to see if I might fit through. Maybe a cage fit to hold massive beasts might not be designed to hold a skinny girl. Here goes. Unngh! The head barely fits, along with the top of the shoulders, but I know the rest of me ain’t gonna get through. Damn! What to do? Just wait for a grisly and very painful death? Is this where it all ends for Jacky Faber?

  The tiger, which has been casting its black eye upon my poor body, gets to a crouch and takes a tentative step toward me.

  No! Think! What, what? Then, crazily, the deep voice of Jemimah Moses slips into my terrified mind. “Come now, girl, you can’t give up now. Think on that clever ole Brother Rabbit. When he find hisself in trouble, what he do? You said it before when you said ‘rabbit hole.’ Give you any ideas, Sister Girl?”

  Think! Think! Of course! Brother Rabbit! That taleJemimah told on that last voyage of the Nancy B. The rabbit was in jail and about to get hanged in the morning, but still he got out of it! How? By getting the Sheriff to grant him a whole pile of roasted peanuts as his last meal. But that crafty rabbit didn’t eat those goobers. No, he crushed ’em up in a greasy pile and then rubbed the slop all over his body. He wriggled his slippery self right through those bars and went on his rabbity way!

  Course I ain’t got no greasy goobers, and I don’t think the cold sweat that covers my body is quite gonna do it . . . but I spy something that might . . .

  Just outside the bars to my right spins the rear wheel, and on the inside of it is a big glob of axle grease. Frantic, I reach out and pick up a goodly hunk of it on my outstretched fingertips and haul it in, and begin to spread it over my chest. That done, I slap the remainder over my hipbones and tail. Then my greasy palms smear it over my chosen bars and I am ready to proceed.

  Here goes . . . First the chest . . . There! Glad there’s not too much of me there, and that part slips right through. Now for the rest! Little bit more . . . shove! Ugh! The buttocks bunch up and then . . . Yes! Bum and legs are through and I am out! I reach up to grab the bars on the outside and swing out. And just in time, for a large paw with wicked claws extended comes snaking out after me.

  I look to the side of the road and see nothing but harsh gravel down there . . . But wait! There are some bushes coming up and they look a helluva lot softer than that crushed stone, so I send up a quick prayer and launch myself into the night.

  I hit the rougher-than-they-looked shrubs with barely an oof! so I am reasonably sure von Arndt did not hear me depart, as his wagon clatters off down the road. Then all is silence as I contemplate my situation: I am naked, and have no tools to rectify that situation . . . except my bare hands . . .

  . . . and with those hands I begin to rip branches off the bushes, hoping I have not landed in a patch of poison ivy. My plan? It is simply this: I shall cover my nakedness with fronds of the local flora, sleep as best I can through the night, and, at dawn, creep down to a neighboring farmhouse and beg the lady of the house for help.

  Y’see, Mum, I’m in a bit of a pickle here, as you can plainly see, and iffen you could help me out, I’m sure you would be amply rewarded . . . But wait . . . Someone’s coming . . .

  There is a great hue and cry from my left, and a gang of men on horseback come roaring by. I crouch down as the riders surge past, led by a grimly determined Rigger O’Rourke. As soon as I recognize them as my own lads, I rise up. They do not notice me, in all the dust and turmoil of the chase, and charge on after their quarry. But how didRigger know which road to take?

  Oh, well, I’m thinkin’, I’ll find out later. Back to plan A. At least I’m still alive, and that’s something. I tear at some more branches. But wait . . . What’s this?

  Presently, I’m hearing a much softer voice calling out in the night.

  With joy in my heart, I recognize Higgins’s voice. He is riding in the buckboard, stopping every twenty yards or so to call out, “Miss Faber? Are you there? Hello, Miss Faber?”

  Hooray!

  When he pulls abreast of my bushes, I leap out and crawl up beside him on the low seat.

  “Good to see you, Higgins,” I say, breathless.

  “The feeling is mutual, Miss,” he replies, unruffled as usual. “There is a blanket behind you, should you feel the need for it.” The moon is out and it is apparent that I am definitely in need of such covering.

  “Thanks, Higgins,” I say, reaching back and gathering the woolly thing about myself. “I seem to constantly require additional cover as I stumble my way through this world, don’t I?”

  “Indeed, Miss, that does seem to be the case, if past experience is any guide,” he says, and I know he is smiling at that. “And I figured that this case will not be all that different.”

  He is interrupted by the sound of shots and cries from far up the road. Obviously, the posse has caught up with von Arndt and the wagon full of tigers.

  “I sure hope things go well up there,” I say, shivering a bit under my welcome cover as we turn and head for home. Besides Rigger, I recognized Marcello and other dear friends in that mob of riders, and I fear for their safety—that evil shotgun of von Arndt’s and all. “But how did you know this was the route the rotten bastard would take? And I know it was you, so don’t deny it.”

  I lift a grease-streaked eyebrow in question at my rescuer.

  “As factotum of the Montessori and Mattucci Circus, I receive all the mail. Before distributing the posts, I took the liberty of steaming open von Arndt’s, believing him to be a security risk.” Our ever-wise Higgins sniffs. “I noticed he had opened an account at a New York bank. I knew he would go there to process his ill-gotten gains. Stupid of him not to have thought of that.”

  “But very smart of you, dear Higgins,” I say. “If I was not covered with axle grease, I would give you a mighty hug.”

  “Well, perhaps later, Miss, after a nice bath, we will . . .”

  Presently, we hear riders behind us. Higgins stops the rig and pulls out his pistols and we wait, me with bated breath. I exhale when the leader of the riders comes into view. It is Rigger, holding up the bag of money and grinning in relief at seeing me safe and sound. “Hey, rube,” he calls out triumphantly, “I lost the money but I got it back, just like I said I would.”

  “And so you did, Rigger, and we thank you for it,” I say, the gratitude plain in my voice. “You saved the Montessori and Mattucci, for sure.” Poking my head out of my protective blanket, I ask, “What’s happening back there?”

  “The boys are cleaning out the cage as best they can. We stopped by a tidal stream up the road apiece. Buckets of fresh saltwater sloshed over the wagon floor should clean things up nicely.” He laughs. “I’m sure Tad and Jerry had no idea of the jobs they would be doing when they signed up with us, but they are willing lads. The cats are very quiet now, having eaten their fill, s
o they will not bother them.”

  “And Herr Udo von Arndt, Wild Animal Trainer himself? Did he put up a fight?”

  “A short one. He tried to outrun us, but he could not outrun our bullets. He shall train no more animals,” Rigger says with a snort, “except maybe gangs of imps in hell. Here’s his whip. He has no more use of it.” He tosses the braided lariat in the back of the buckboard. “We shoved him down that hole in the top of the wagon and heard no more from him. I think he might have been still alive when he went in, but I don’t know for sure. Don’t care, neither.”

  Higgins chucks the horse, slapping the reins lightly on the horse’s rump, to push on back to camp.

  Somewhat chastened by my carelessness, which led to this whole wild night, I say quietly, “That was lucky, you know, Higgins. He could have gone in another direction.”

  “Yes, I know,” says Higgins thoughtfully. “But if I was wrong, what was lost, after all? A wagon, two tigers, some money, and a very wayward and impulsive young woman—all easily replaced, except, perhaps, for the latter.”

  I reach over and hug him to me, grease be damned, and say . . .

  “I know, Higgins. I love you, too.”

  Chapter 31

  “The other arm, Miss, if you would,” says Higgins as he soaps me up for what will surely be the last time on this trip. Come morn, he will head north to Boston with Mairead in tow, and I and the Montessori and Mattucci Grand Circus will go to New Bedford, set up the show, and then turn south toward warmer climes. He must consult with Ezra Pickering as to the status of that ridiculous charge against my name, and Mairead has to get back to her husband. And I have to let her go, however delightful I might find her company.

  Soon the axle grease is history, as are thoughts of this awful night of blood and slaughter.

  Ahhh . . .

  Higgins, however, interrupts my reverie with a cautious observation while he works on my hair. “You know, Miss, in reviewing your past, I must make the following observation. Number one, there was the pirate Le Fievre who first laid a noose around your neck on that beach in South America. Then it was the demented Reverend Mather who was thwarted in his attempt to strangle the life out of you. That’s two. After that, while we were abroad on the Mississippi, the slave hunters Pap Beam and sons had you mounted on back of that horse, with the cruel rope tight about your throat. Furthermore, when you were with Bonaparte in Germany, you were captured and stood up before a Prussian firing squad, from which you were miraculously delivered. That’s four, I believe.”