Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business

by L. A. Meyer

  “They are Mrs. Bodeen’s girls and they are going to a gaming and sporting house in New Orleans. You may gather from their conduct and dress that the House of the Rising Sun is not a convent.”

  “Ah,” she says, taking my meaning, but saying no more.

  And the life of the Nancy B. was not the only thing Clarissa got into . . . she also got into my bed.

  On our second night out, Joannie and I were abed and about to slip off into sweet slumber when we heard a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” I said drowsily, expecting either Davy or Jim or some other sailor to come in and report on the condition of the ship, approaching weather or whatnot. But it was not any of them, no, it was Clarissa Worthington Howe, in nightshirt, looking rather small and scared.

  “I . . . I . . . don’t like sleeping down there,” she said in a whispery voice. “It’s dark and I don’t like the dark . . . I want to sleep up here . . . with you.”

  “Well, Clarissa, it’s pretty dark in here, too,” I observed, up on one elbow, looking about in the gloom, but I do notice some moonlight coming through the small windows that encircle the rear of my cabin, and I guess it does lend some cheer. “But, all right, you can stay. It’ll be a little crowded, but climb in.”

  “Won’t be crowded at all!” exulted Joannie, popping out of the bed and heading for the door. “I’ll go sleep with Danny! Hooray!”

  “No you won’t!” I shouted, grabbing for the tail of her nightshirt. “You—”

  But I miss and she is out of the cabin and gone.

  Oh, well, there’s not much trouble they can get into in a small tight hammock, I figure. Besides, she’s a smart kid and she knows the score . . . and I ain’t her mother.

  I felt Clarissa put her knee to my bed and crawl in.

  “Here, Clarissa, climb over me and get on the other side. I may have to get up quickly in case something comes up. Watch your head on that.”

  “Ouch! What is it?” she asked, as she climbed over and struck her head on the brass apparatus that pokes down through the ceiling and hangs overhead. My cabin is well-appointed, but space is limited—after all, lovely as she is, the Nancy B. Alsop is but a sixty-five-foot Gloucester schooner.

  “It’s the Speaking Tube,” I replied, as she settled in. “Watch this.”

  “Ahoy the quarterdeck,” I said, with my mouth to the tube. “What’s the word?”

  “All clear, Missy, Course 295 degrees,” replied Jim Tanner, his voice coming soft out of the brass, as I take my mouth away. “Sea’s two to four feet, wind from the north, ten knots, sky filled with stars.”

  “Thanks, Jim. G’night.”

  “G’night, Skipper.”

  From her side of the bed, Clarissa said, “You really do run things here, don’t you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, mystified. “Of course I run things. I own this barky, after all. Ain’t that enough?”

  “No,” she whispered in the darkness, “it’s more than that and you know it.”

  I did not know what she meant by that, so I just said, “Go to sleep, Clarissa. You stay on your side of the bed and I’ll stay on mine.”

  She grunted in agreement and rolled over, facing the wall. I turned on my right side, gave her feet a kick to keep them on her side, folded my hands under my face, and went to sleep.

  However, in the deep of night, when things turned cool and damp and the roll of the ship tended to bring things together, we ended up entwined and bundled up tight when we awakened in the morning.

  Chapter 13

  We managed to get the Nancy B. up the mouth of the Mississippi River and into her berth on the New Orleans levee, but it took some doing since the Big Muddy takes some devious curves before Old Man River finally surrenders himself and his waters to the sea. But, with the help of a fair wind and some muscle on the oars, we did it. Dock fees were paid, coaches hired, and we hauled our cargo up to the front door of the House of the Rising Sun.

  “Mademoiselle Tondalayo!” exclaims the doorman upon seeing me, calling me by the name I had used when last I was here. “So good to have you among us again! We have not seen such excitement since the day you last left!”

  “A pleasure to see you, too, Herbert,” I say, bouncing up the stairs to plant one on his cheek. When I was last here, the day involved guns, swords, the Brothers Lafitte, the vile Flashby, Mike Fink, and liberal sprays of rock salt from the cannons of the Belle of the Golden West, but we need not go into that. Suffice to say, I wish to meet none of those gentlemen again—at least not now. I wear my mantilla closer to my face than usual in case I need to quickly draw it across my face. “But, now, my good Herbert, if you would show us in to Mrs. Babineau.”

  We are swiftly brought into the main foyer of the House of the Rising Sun, Clarissa and I in the lead, the newly arrived girls from Mrs. Bodeen’s of Boston close behind. There are squeals of recognition as our recent cargo renew old acquaintances with their sisters in the trade, and I advance to Mrs. Babineau’s office to present my Bill of Lading.

  She sits at her desk, as tight and trim as her sister, Mrs. Bodeen. She nods as she reaches out and takes the papers from my hand.

  “You again,” she says, scanning the manifest.

  “Yes, Madame,” I say, with a medium curtsy. “Passage for ten women, ten women delivered, as promised.”

  “Very well. And you are contracted to ferry ten more back to Boston, aren’t you?”

  “Oui, madame,” I reply, slipping into French.

  “Bien. They shall be ready in a week. Who is this?” she asks, looking over at Clarissa. “Is she a working girl?”

  “Non, madame. Just a friend come to visit your fine city.”

  Mrs. Babineau’s eyes glance over Clarissa’s face and form. “A pity, that. She could make some serious money.”

  Clarissa had, of course, gone through my closet and picked out my best dress, a white Empire style, and decked out in it, with white bonnet up top, she looks absolutely smashing. The dress is light, which is good, because New Orleans is hot in the summer, and the riding outfit she had worn when coming onboard just wouldn’t do. Her blond hair is up, her face powdered and lightly rouged from my cosmetic kit, and she is ready and eager to go. I am similarly attired, but not nearly as elegantly, but so it goes. When it comes to beauty, I shall ever be in her shadow.

  Mrs. Babineau signs the check for the passage of her girls, hands it to me, and Clarissa and I exit into the main hall, where, of course, I am greeted with an expected explosion of yellow.

  “Precious! Oh, it’s my darlin’ Precious come back to see her dear sister Claudelle!” exults Mam’selle Claudelle de Bourbon, wrapping her arms about me. “Oh, we are going to have such fun! Hot baths, massages, and just hours and hours of pillow talk!”

  After she lets me go, I say, “It is a joy to see you, too, Mam’selle, but I’m afraid I’m shipping out again this afternoon.”

  She looks crestfallen and pulls a long face. “Oh, don’t tell me that, Precious! I did so long to see you, to be with you again. Please tell me you’ll stay.”

  She brightens up considerably when I inform her that I’ll be back in a week or so, and she brightens up even more when I introduce her to Clarissa.

  “Mam’selle, may I present Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe, of the Virginia Howes. Clarissa, this is Mademoiselle Claudelle de Bourbon, of the New Orleans Bourbons.”

  The eyes of both of them travel over the other. Clarissa’s look is bemused, but she manages a murmured charmed while Mam’selle reaches out and takes her hand.

  “Enchanté, Mam’selle Howe,” she breathes. “Come, there is too much fuss, fuss, fuss around here. Let me take you both down to the Café Dauphin and we’ll catch up on things.”

  Clarissa nods and moves to the door, slightly dazzled, I believe, by all the action and color at the House of the Rising Sun. As she does so, Mam’selle takes me by my elbow and whispers in my ear . . .

  “I don’t blame you one bit fo
r kicking poor ol’ Mam’selle outta your bed when you got somethin’ like that around. I bet those little rosebud lips taste just as good as they look!”

  “It ain’t like that at all, Mam’selle.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, that’s one fine, fine piece of perfection right there! Ooouwee, skinny Minnie, wouldn’t mind a bit o’ that for my own self!”

  I heave a weary sigh as we head down Bourbon Street to the Café Dauphin.

  As I once again sit at the outdoor plaza of Café Dauphin, I look about me and remember when last I sat here. Then, I was desperately trying to find Jaimy Fletcher, he who had preceded me downriver after having caught me in a rather awkward situation with Cavalry Captain Lord Richard Allen, us both being starkers with arms wrapped about each other and waist deep in the Mississippi. But enough of that, as I have paid for that bit of folly ten times over . . .

  But Jaimy, I do so hope you are well and have found your way back to Boston by now and will be waiting for me when I land. It will only be a few weeks till I get back, and if you are there, my heart will be gladdened beyond measure. I hope you have reunited with those of my friends whom you know and are enjoying your stay at the Pig and Whistle. I hope that with all my heart, I really do . . .

  “And Miss Clarissa,” Mam’selle is saying, “you simply must come with me to the opening of the new show at the American Theater down on Charles Street. They say it is the most scandalous thing, and all the finest people will be there! And the gaming tables at the Rising Sun, why, our Precious here was a legend in that place.”

  It has been decided that Clarissa will stay with Mam’selle for the week when we will be otherwise . . . occupied.

  We are finishing up a fine lunch of crayfish, rice, boudin, and cold white wine.

  “What’s in this boudin?” asks Clarissa, chewing on a chunk of the whitish sausage. “It’s very good.”

  “Best not to ask, dear,” I say, downing my own portion of the same. I wash it down with a swallow of the wine, but I notice that Clarissa is matching me two glasses for each one of mine. Hmmm . . . I’m beginning to wonder at the wisdom of this arrangement. Be careful, Clarissa . . .

  The luncheon is cleared away, more wine is poured, and I sit reveling in the warmth of the day and thinking of the things we must do in the coming week. Not only do we have to bring up the last stash of gold, we also have to pick up Tink . . .

  As we had swung by the outer Keys, we had drawn close to Cuba, and when there, we put John Tinker in our small boat and had him rowed to shore, near Bahia Honda. He was dressed in his best and had a pocketful of money as well.

  “Give Concepción our best, and regards to Señor Ric. If you see Flaco Jimenez, tell him I’m in New Orleans and might see him soon. Good Luck, Tink. True love will win out, you’ll see.”

  I hope . . .

  I give my head a shake and I am back on the New Orleans levee with Clarissa and Mam’selle. I note that Clarissa’s glass is once again empty and she is signaling for the waiter. Her eyes have taken on a certain luster.

  Mam’selle continues to babble on as she withdraws a small glass vial from her handbag, unscrews the top, and taps a small amount of white powder onto the fleshy part of the back of her left hand, the part between thumb and forefinger.

  Then she brings her hand to her nose and, very delicately, sniffs the powder into her left nostril.

  “Ah . . .” she breathes, snorting the stuff farther back into her nose. She blinks and says, “May I offer you some, dear ones?”

  I shake my head. My good John Higgins has warned me many times of the dangers of cocaine and of the many young men he has known who were brought down by that innocent-looking powder. But Clarissa does not shake her head.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “Oh, dear Clarissa,” answers Mam’selle, “it is merely a mild restorative. Here, put out your hand.”

  “Clarissa . . .” I warn.

  “Oh, hush, you,” says Clarissa, placing her lily-white before Mam’selle. “I’ll have a try.”

  Mam’selle taps a little of the powder onto the back of Clarissa’s hand and says, “Just sniff it up, it won’t hurt you a bit.”

  Clarissa brings her hand to her face and snorts in the powder. Her baby-blue eyes go wide.

  “Whoa!” she says.

  Somehow, I have the feeling this might not end at all well . . .

  Chapter 14

  It did not take us long to navigate the Nancy B. back over our secret stash, as a fragment of my old red scarf was still hanging from that mangrove, that rag now bleached white by the sun, but showing us our way, nonetheless. Finding that old Indian camp gave us the needed second bearing that enabled us to locate the wreck of the Santa Magdalena, the other bearing being the western tip of Key West. This information had been provided by a brave young Spanish lieutenant who had made very hurried observations as his ship was going down in a hurricane. I am forever grateful to Teniente Carlos Maria Santana y Juarez for his map and to the Santa Magdalena for her gold, which brought Faber Shipping to prosperity, a prosperity I have been busy squandering.

  Joannie was barely able to suppress a shudder as we spotted the marker, for it was there that she was almost devoured by a huge alligator. She still bears some scars on her body from that encounter . . . and some on her mind as well. I am not the only one subject to nightmares.

  As soon as we had tossed out the anchor, Joannie and I climbed into our swimming suits, donned our fins and goggles, and flipped backward over the stern of the Nancy B. and into and under the warm, sparkling blue waters of the Caribbean Sea. Once again, I am struck by the beauty of the underwater world—the waving fronds, the banks of pink coral dappled by the sunlight streaming from above, and, best of all, the schools of multicolored and very curious little fish that swim right up to our masks before flitting away.

  When we are down about twenty feet, Joannie taps my arm and points off to our left.

  Sure enough, there’s that familiar head of coral, and beneath it is the small cave containing the stash. Joannie wants to head straight for it, but I grab her arm and point upward. She nods and we both head up and break the surface next to the Nancy B.

  “Lads,” I say to those whose heads hang over the rail, looking down upon us, “hand us down two tridents, and when we come up next time, have the net bag ready. All right, thanks.”

  Joannie and I each take one of the three-pronged spears and head back down. No way was I going to let either one of us stick our hands into that hole without poking our steel forks in first. I well remember my encounter with that moray eel on our last foray down to these waters, an encounter that almost got me killed.

  The stash cave is only about thirty feet down. I knew at the time we hid the stuff, we might not have the lovely deep-diving bell with us if we ever had to come back here to retrieve the booty, and, indeed, we don’t. It rests in the belly of the Lorelei Lee, serving now merely as dumb ballast, but it has proved its worth many times over.

  Sure enough, when we shove our tridents into the cave, all manner of creatures come flying out, but none look very threatening, and so we go back up for a breath and the net bag.

  Back down, I stick my hand in the cave while Joannie holds the bag open and . . . yes, my fingers touch the smooth sides of an ingot, and I draw it out, hold it up before the grinning Joannie, and stick it in the bag. I retrieve the other two and cram them in there, also. Then I give the line a jerk and it flies up to the surface. We follow.

  “Davy,” I gasp, upon regaining my breath, “disguise those like you did the others before, while we go down to get the chest. Then we’ll be done here.”

  When we had been here on the initial salvage of the Santa Magdalena’s treasure and I decided that we needed a share of the gold—a share more generous than King George was prepared to give me, which was not much—Davy and Tink took the ingots from the hiding place within the Bell, painted them gray, and stored them down in the bilges with the lead ballast. The ruse worked the fir
st time, surviving several searches, so it should work again. Things hidden in plain sight tend to be those things that remain undiscovered.

  The lads empty the bag and flip it back over the side. Joannie and I surface dive together and wriggle down to the cave. I let her reach in to gather the last prize. She hauls out the small cask and shoves it into the bag and up we go again.

  “Put it in my cabin, Jim. We’ll be up in a little while,” I say. “C’mon, Joannie, let’s see about dinner.”

  We slip under again, retrieve our tridents, and go on the prowl, as dangerous to the denizens of the undersea world as any two hungry sharks.

  After a fine dinner of redfish, grouper, and lobster tail, with hot cornbread on the side, I lean back in my chair and announce to my crew, “Joannie and I will dive for sponges this afternoon and tomorrow, and on the next day, we will head into Havana. We will pick up Tink, and there will be some well-earned liberty for all.”

  There are certainly cheers on that.

  Chapter 15

  No, we do not pick up my dear brother John Tinker when the Nancy B. once again sails boldly into Havana Harbor . . . Instead, we attend his wedding . . .

  Upon her arrival, the Nancy B. managed to find dockage very close to the one she had two years ago when last she was here. Pay is given out and we hit the beach. Our mooring is very convenient to the center of the city . . . and to Ric’s Café Americano. It did not take long for her thirsty crew to pile into that place, scene of many happy times . . . and some not so happy.

  Pay is given out and we hit the beach.

  I was greeted with open arms by Señor Ric, and, Yes, señor, I would be happy to do a set tonight, and just wait till you hear the new stuff I picked up in Spain! Tink appears, beaming, in his best clothes, with his dark-haired bride-to-be, Concepción Maria Constanza Mendoza, Señor Ric’s own dear daughter, smiling shyly on Tink’s arm. The wedding, we are told, is to be the day after tomorrow, they having waited till we returned so Davy could be Tink’s best man. I get to be a flower girl. I think I did not pass muster on the bridesmaid thing because of my rather checkered past. Probably the state of my maidenhood came up and I was found possibly wanting. Ah well, it’s their show and I shan’t take offense. I shall fling flowers with the best of them.