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

by L. A. Meyer

  “You don’t ever have to worry about your appearance, Clarissa,” I say, then turn to our sullen handmaiden. “Joannie, you’ll either do it or you won’t go. You’re too young to be at the Captain’s table, and besides, you weren’t invited. I could take Daniel to perform the role, you know. So decide, girl.”

  She fumes, but she does it, picking up the brush and applying it to Clarissa’s hair.

  “And besides, Joan Nichols, I am sure there will be many pretty young midshipmen there, and they have not seen a girl in a long, long time.”

  I give her a wink on that and turn to my own dressing. I unpack my naval officer’s rig—blue lieutenant’s jacket, frilly white shirt with lace at neck and cuffs, tight white trousers, and black boots. I always carry it with me wherever I go, in case I need it. Yes, the Sin of Vanity, I know, but I am helpless before that particular sin.

  After I get out of my sailor suit, I pull the lacy shirt over my head and let it fall to my waist. Then I step into the trousers and say, “Joannie, give me a tuck.”

  I wish Higgins were here, but Joannie manages, tucking in the shirttails as I bring up the pants and fasten the waist. Now the boots, and then the jacket. Fasten it down, and on with the medals from my jewel box—first the Legion of Honor on my left breast, then the Trafalgar medal, on its red, white, and blue ribbon, around my neck.

  There, all shipshape and Bristol-fashion, I proclaim to myself upon viewing my image in the mirror. Just the way I like it.

  I turn to the other two and break out my cosmetic kit.

  “Here, Clarissa, a bit of powder for your—”

  “I know how to do it,” she says, taking the puff from my hand and applying it to her cheeks and chest. When she is done, I give Joannie a little dusting and then open my bottle of jasmine perfume and dab a little behind each ear and then do the same for Joannie.

  “There, dear. That’ll drop any midshipman to his knees if he is lucky enough to get his nose anywhere near your neck. Clarissa? Will you have some?” I hold the bottle out to her.

  She takes out the stopper and sniffs. “Ah,” she says with eyebrows raised in disdain, “our Miss Jacky Faber, nothing but the best in taste and refinement.” But still, she takes a few dabs.

  I stuff my midshipman’s cap on my head and say, “Are we ready? Good. Then let’s go.”

  The boat is sent over at the appointed hour and we are escorted onto the deck of USS Chesapeake, to be met there by Second Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne, USMC, and by Captain Stephen Decatur, himself. Introductions are made, bows and curtsies all around, a brief tour of the upper decks, where I find everything shipshape, of course, and then down into the Captain’s cabin, where the table is prepared for a splendid feast—the places set, the candles lit, the wineglasses sparkling. Ah, yes, one of the many ways to Jacky Faber’s heart.

  We are seated, me to the left of the Captain, Clarissa to the right, Lieutenant Trevelyne by my other side, and the very fortunate Lieutenant Pulver to the left of the very beautiful Clarissa Worthington Howe. Glasses are filled, and Captain Stephen Decatur rises to his feet.

  “God save the United States of America!” he says, and all rise to echo that wish. “God save the U.S.A.!”

  I lend my voice to the toast, and when all have drunk, the Captain says to me, “As the only one here wearing the uniform of Britannia, Lieutenant Faber, would you like to offer a toast as well?”

  “I would, Sir,” I say, knowing in just what esteem a British officer is held on this particular American ship. I hold up my glass. “In spite of our recent difficulties, our two countries are not officially at war, and considering the brotherly love we have for each other, I hope with all my heart that they never shall be!”

  Some hear, hears are heard, but they are faint and not unanimous, and more’s the pity, for I fear the worst.

  “Lieutenant Trevelyne has filled me in on your past exploits, Miss Faber. Could you please tell us of your recent activities? I believe you have been in Portugal with General Wellesley on the Peninsular Campaign against Napoleon?”

  “Yes, Sir, I was there by his side at the Battle of Vimeiro and was thereafter sent to . . .”

  Yes, I sparkle in the telling of these past things, but I do not sparkle half so much as does the one who sits across from me . . .

  The brilliance of my meager fame fades quickly in the radiance of Clarissa’s beauty. Yes, I tell of the Portuguese battles and of Madrid and Cartagena and the Roma and all that, but somehow that doesn’t hold a candle to Clarissa’s mere presence. All my military glory dims. These men have been at sea a long time, and the sight of Clarissa’s girls sitting up all jaunty above her bodice, quivering with her slightest move, has captured every male’s attention in the cabin. Hmmm . . .

  Note to self: Next time, girl, forget the uniform and do the dress.

  “And we went into the palace to set up for the royal portrait and . . .”

  “. . . and what will you do now, Miss Howe?” asks the worshipful Lieutenant Pulver, his eyes full of Clarissa and completely in her thrall.

  “Oh, Ah believe Ah shall go on the stage, as that befits my generous nature and mah desire to share mah special gifts with the world of the theater.”

  Oh, Clarissa, spare me . . . She is sure layin’ it on thick with the accent.

  “And where will that performance be?” asks another smitten male farther down the table.

  “Why, at the Emerald Playhouse in Boston, of course, you deah man, only the finest venue in that fair city, Ah do declare.”

  “Well, we shall be there, Miss Howe! Count on it! The Chesapeake expects to dock there within two weeks!”

  “Well, Ah expects to see all you fine gentlemen at the stage door when Ah am finished with mah performance and in need of some comfort . . .”

  There is an exhalation of male breath all around the table.

  “And now, Miss Joan, if you will hand me mah guitar, Ah will play some songs that you gentlemen might find amusin’.”

  I sit as Clarissa runs through some of the songs I have recently taught her—“Jolie Blonde,” “Plaisir d’amour”—to the great acclaim of the gathering, then, protesting a need for some air, I go out of the cabin on Randall’s arm.

  “Well!” says Randall. “Clarissa is quite the belle of the ball! You must be jealous, given your nature.”

  We go to the rail and look out over the sea.

  “Nay, Randall, let her have her fun, as I have had mine in similar circumstances, and in very similar cabins. No, let us enjoy this lovely night.”

  “You did hear we will be in Boston in two weeks?”

  “Yes, Randall, and that will be grand. I shall tell Polly when we get back. I know she will be most happy.”

  I lean my head against his shoulder. “We are a very far way from Jena-Auerstadt, are we not, Lieutenant Trevelyne?”

  “Indeed we are, Sous-Lieutenant Bouvier, and thank God for that.”

  I give his arm a squeeze as we hear sounds of merriment coming up from the Captain’s cabin. Then I look over to see two forms at the other rail. In the moonlight I can see that one is a young girl and one is a young midshipman. The young girl lifts her head in that time-honored invitation for a kiss and the young man delivers it.

  “Ahem,” I say. “I believe it is time for me to get my brood back to my nest. Goodbye, Randall, I look forward to seeing you in Boston.”

  With that I give him a kiss on the cheek and go collect Clarissa and that Joannie.

  When we are abed this night, Clarissa lifts her head from the pillow and whispers, “Did you have a good time with Randall out there on the deck?”

  “Wot? No, we just talked.”

  “Uh-huh . . .”

  “Hey, you seemed to be having a good time back there in the cabin, so don’t give me that.”

  “Uh-huh . . .”

  “And . . .”

  “Right . . . I did have a good time. But one thing you gotta know, Jacky,” she says, “I still owe you one . . .
for Randall.”

  I sit up and look down on her.

  “But that’s crazy. Neither one of us has Randall now, Clarissa. Polly Von has him.”

  “True, but I did have him once and then a certain dirty little London street urchin arrived on the scene and then I did not have him.”

  I give her a light punch.

  “C’mon, Clarissa, we were but kids then. Just puppies. Surely that bet is off. Surely you cannot still bear a grudge.”

  “Oh? Of course not, dear,” she says, her voice heavy with impending sleep, “but all is fair in love and war, right? And remember, Jacky, I do owe you one in the game of love, and someday I mean to collect. Goodnight, Jacky.”

  “Goodnight, Clarissa,” I say, slipping off into sleep myself, but still wondering at the implied threat. Surely she cannot mean it, can she?

  Chapter 19

  James Emerson Fletcher

  State Street

  Boston, Massachusetts, USA

  June 21, 1809

  Miss J. M. Faber

  The Pig and Whistle Inn

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Dear Jacky,

  This shall be the last letter I shall send to you. I will conduct the business I must accomplish here in Boston, and then I shall be out of your life forever.

  The reason for my change of heart will soon become clear to you. It goes like this:

  Having taken lodging at the headquarters of Faber Shipping, I went out into the town to secure a place of business for my patron, and, having found a suitable space on State Street, I put down money, signed the necessary lease papers, and went to the Pig and Whistle for what promised to be an excellent lunch.

  Feeling in high spirits on a very fine day, I hobbled back down to my lodging, soaking up the old familiar sights and looking out over the harbor in hopes of spying the returning Nancy B., but alas, that was not to be, and more is the pity. For if I had spotted you down at the docks, all this would not have happened.

  As it were, I climbed the stairs to my rooms and was about to enter when I noticed that the door to your studio was ajar, probably left that way by a cleaning woman. Thinking you would not mind, since we soon would be sharing all things in our lives, I went in to look about.

  It was a very pleasant, light-filled space, and I can see why you chose it for your workspace. Wandering about, I spied a very nice portrait in progress of a ship’s captain, a large sign laid out proclaiming Wilson Bros. Ships’ Chandlers, and some drawings, which I took to be student work, arranged about on wooden easels. Then I spied a leather tube, which looked a lot like a nautical map case.

  Thinking that it might be a chart of your recent travels, which I would find most interesting, I removed the cap.

  Indeed, I did find the contents most interesting . . .

  It was neither a chart nor a map. No, it was nothing more than the end of all my hopes that you and I might share a life together. How much, just how much, Jacky, can one man take, even a man such as I, who in the past has overlooked and forgiven some of your more outrageous transgressions?

  I spread the canvas out on the workbench and it lay there, glowing in the afternoon light pouring through the tall windows. Beneath the reclining nude figure of the girl are these words, La Maja Virginal. Con todo mi amor. Amadeo Romero, 1808.

  I do not have much fluency in the Spanish language, but it does not take much to figure out that Con todo mi amor means “With all my love.”

  I stood there and steamed in inchoate rage. Yes, I can well imagine what “all my love” meant in this case—all of you, from top to bottom, given up to this damned Amadeo Romero and, yes, to Joseph Jared and Richard Allen and all the rest of your mob of male “friends” whom you have successfully explained away in the past. Oh, yes, you have a glib tongue, Jacky, but I don’t believe it will be able to explain away this one—and no telling where that lying tongue has been.

  I slammed my rod down hard on the bench top, the green-eyed Monster of Jealousy in full possession of me. No, Master Kwai Chang, I cannot follow your teachings, I cannot let go of this thing that tears at my mind. I cannot. I am not a worthy student, I know that now. I know that I am merely a beast, driven by my passions, by my rage, and I shall remain forever so. I am sorry, Master, but that is the way of it.

  I compliment this Señor Romero on his skill—the resemblance is striking, for it is definitely you lying there, Jacky, mocking me with your smile, no doubt about it. If I had ever once thought that I would rejoice in once again seeing you in your natural state with your Brotherhood tattoo proudly on your hipbone, I was dead wrong.

  A great sadness fell over me. I rolled up the painting and put it back in its case. I retreated to my now unhappy room to pen this letter. I will drop it at the Pig and Whistle the day I leave Boston, after I have completed my business here.

  I now put you out of my mind, Jacky. Only bitterness remains . . .

  In sorrow,

  James Fletcher

  PART III

  GRAND OPENING!

  The Emerald Playhouse

  A new Theater on State Street, presenting only the finest in Musick, Dance, and the Thespian Arts. This season we offer the following:

  NOW APPEARING

  OPENING JULY 20

  Many Lands, Many People, Many Songs, a Musickal Revue, featuring the Song & Dance Stylings of the Internationally Acclaimed Musician and Instrumentalist Miss Jacky Faber, as well as Vocals by Mr. Solomon Freeman and others. After Intermission there will be a playlet, The Villain Pursues Constant Maiden, or Fair Virtue in Peril, written by J. M. Faber, and starring Miss Clarissa Howe in the Title Role.

  ONE DAY ONLY—JULY 27

  Choral Works of Handel, Haydn, and Mozart, presented by the Chorus of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls, Maestro Fracelli, conducting.

  OPENING JULY 28

  In the Belly of the Bloodhound, a new Dramatick Play, written by Miss Amy Wemple Trevelyne, and directed by Messrs. Fennel and Bean, renowned Thespians.

  EVERY SATURDAY MORNING AT TEN O’CLOCK

  The Children’s Hour, featuring the folk stories, play-party songs, and games of Mrs. Jemimah Moses, Storyteller. Open to all well-behaved Children.

  COMING TO THE EMERALD IN THE FALL

  Abduction from the Seraglio, by W. A. Mozart. King Lear, by Wm Shakespeare, and a new Work from Miss Trevelyne. And much, much, more. All sure to please the Discriminating Patron of the Arts.

  The Emerald Playhouse is a wholly owned subsidiary of Faber Shipping Worldwide. Tickets to performances are available at the box office or at the Pig and Whistle Inn. Balcony seats, $2. General admission, $1. Standing room, 50 cents. Children’s Hour, 25 cents per child. A full bar is provided at Intermission.

  Chapter 20

  “. . . and then I got a berth as Able Bodied Seaman on the Margaret Todd bound for New England, and here I am, lying in the hay in the loft of the big barn at Dovecote, one of my favorite places in the whole wide world, at the side of my dear Sister, Amy Trevelyne. End of story.”

  “Oh, Jacky, how wonderful it must have been! In the midst of the very heart of literary London! What were they really like?”

  “Well, Amy, just like any other males, I suppose—strutting about and trying to get into your knickers—or, more likely, into each other’s. Occasionally writing down some poetry to impress their pals. I have two snippets, one from Mr. Coleridge concerning a ‘damsel with a dulcimer,’ and one from Lord Byron concerning a ‘china girl.’ I have decorated the borders of the notes and framed them up and hung them on the wall of my bedroom at the Pig. You may have them if you wish—all that poetical stuff is lost on me.”

  “And to meet the King of England, himself! That must have been quite impressive, even to one such as you.”

  “It was, though Napoleon on the field of Jena impressed me more. However, it came to me then, and it comes to me now—everyone, no matter how grand, puts their drawers on one leg at a time.”

  “I suppose, Sister, but still
. . .”

  “So, Amy, what do you think of our playbill?”

  I am sprawled out on the aromatic hay while Amy sits cross-legged, reading the newly printed broadside. My head lies on her lap, she having laid aside, for the moment, her ever-present notebook. We have been going over the events that occur in the book she had decided will be titled The Mark of the Golden Dragon. She apparently pulled most of the information she needs for The Wake of the Lorelei Lee out of Mairead McConnaughey and my Irish crew, when the Lorelei Lee was in Boston after one of her transatlantic runs. With a profound sigh for my poor reputation, I filled in the rest.

  “It could be wished, dear heart, that our native language had more standardized spelling,” she replies.

  “Aw, c’mon, Amy, it gets the idea across, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose it does,” she says. “So Clarissa is to do Prudence Goodheart? It seems such a contradiction in terms.”

  “I thought it best she ease into her acting life slowly, without too much stress on her abilities, before taking on a bigger role. In rehearsal, she seems to be getting into the spirit of the thing.”

  “Ah, the emotional depth of that particular role . . .”

  I give a hurt sniff at that. “I’ll have you know I’ve seen productions of my little play all along the East Coast. It’s not a patch on the success of your books, but still I have a certain affection for it.”

  “I cannot believe you are doing this for her.”

  “Well, she needs some help, family troubles, you know, and she’s not all bad. When we were on the Bloodhound, I got to know her worst side and her best side, and I must say the good outweighed the bad. Moreover, I’ll bet she’ll be a pretty good actress.”