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

by L. A. Meyer

Well, never mind him. At the head of the mob is stout Mrs. Shinn herself, head up and resolute, and beside her is . . . oh, my . . . Constance Howell, the Bloodhound’s Chief Scolder of Jacky Faber for Her Wanton Ways.

  “Hello, Connie!” I shout. “March on, Sister! Votes for women, you bet!”

  She hears my call and nods, a trifle shamefaced, I notice. Perhaps conversing with a saloonkeeper isn’t on her list of proper things to do. Oh, well, we never will see eye to eye on some things, but I do recall that she was one of those girls in the Bloodhound’s dank hold who did hold fast to the end.

  As the front rank draws abreast of my balcony, Mrs. Shinn raises her hand and bellows, “Ladies . . . Halt!”

  And they stumble to a stop, in a reasonably military fashion.

  “Greetings, Mother Shinn!” I crow out. “Sisterhood Forever!”

  She does not reply, but only fixes a gimlet eye on me from below and cries, “Ladies . . . the Union Song . . . One . . . Two . . . Three!”

  The drummer next to Mrs. Shinn starts up a steady beat and the song is begun . . .

  Here we come marching, the Temperance Un-ion

  Here we come singing, the Temperance Un-ion

  Here we come praying, the Temperance Un-ion

  Put a nickel on the drum and you’ll be saved!

  Put a nickel on our drum, and save another drunken bum.

  Put a nickel on the drum and you’ll be saved.

  Hmmm . . . I am not liking the way this is going.

  Ravi and Molly have appeared bearing trays, and I place the Faber rump on the railing and accept a glass of wine from Molly. Other glasses are passed around and the golden Madeira glows in the sunlight.

  “Surely, Mother Shinn,” I call down, “you are on the righteous march for women’s votes and not here to interfere with my honest business.”

  “Your honest business?” She snorts. “Purveying spirits to weak men, destroying families, taking food out of the mouths of babes so that their fathers may get drunk and lie down in a stupor of filth and disgrace! And there you stand, like any common strumpet with your rum glass in your hand and mock me? Honest? I should say not!”

  What? A strumpet? Why, you old . . .

  “A pity that,” I spit back, getting well steamed. “I was considering a donation to your worthy cause.”

  “Don’t bother. We do not accept whore’s gold as it has been tarnished by sin. We have heard what goes on in that place.”

  “In the Pig and Whistle? The Emerald Playhouse? Why, Missus, it is just innocent fun. Bring the children—all will enjoy, I assure you.”

  “That’s not what I hear. Beware, girl, do not get above yourself. If you do, we will close you down.”

  “Close me down? Close me down? What makes you think you can do that? I run a respectable house here, Mother Shinn, and I am a respected member of the business community.”

  She bends her head to spit on the ground before me.

  At that, I stand and say, “Friends, a toast to Mother Shinn. Lift your glasses . . .” and the glasses are, indeed, hoisted by all on my balcony—no, they do not contain rum but merely Madeira and sweet tea—but let Mother Shinn believe what she will, the mean old biddy. “A toast to the Committees on Women’s Suffrage! May they prevail in their mission!”

  “Hear, hear,” say my compatriots on my balcony. I do not hear that from the men who have gathered about on the street. What I hear from them is . . . Silly women . . . to hell wi’ them . . . Let ’em stay in their place, I says, keepin’ house and sucklin’ babies . . . that’s what they’re good for, nothin’ but . . . Votes? Hell, yes, votes for us men, and the kitchen and scrubbin’ up for them . . .

  “And as for ‘nickels on your drum,’ Mother Shinn, why, here’s a whole bunch of them!”

  With that, I scoop up a fistful of Pig and Whistle wooden nickels from Ravi’s basket and fling them down upon her. Many hit the drum that sits next to her and make a light tapping sound before bouncing off to land in the street.

  “Gather them up, ladies, for they are each worth a free pint at the Pig and Whistle! Come join us here at the end of your march to redeem them and we will all come together in good fellowship! I think it would do you a world of good!”

  Mother Shinn raises her arm and cries, “Ladies of the Committee for Women’s Suffrage . . . forward, MARCH!”

  But it does not happen. The men on the sidelines have gone scampering for the tokens that lie in the street and there are many squeals from the ladies, who stand stunned as their skirts are brushed aside while the men seek out the wooden nickels, which promise a free, but brief, slaking of their constant thirst.

  A line of them has formed across the street, barring the march from moving forward.

  Throw down some more, Jacky, I hear them cry as they lift up their hands, but I lean over and say, “Nay, good fellows, we must let the ladies pass!”

  We shall not! is the common male chorus.

  “Very well, gents, let us keep things civil, shall we?” I say, searching desperately for a way to defuse this situation, which cannot be good for business. “How ’bout a few tunes that speak to this controversy?”

  Lay on, Jacky, lay on!

  And I do. I once again lean over the railing to address Mother Shinn, who stands in speechless fury at her march being stalled in front of my place of business.

  “Mrs. Shinn, I know a few more verses to your fine song,” I sing out. “Would you like to hear them? I am sure they will serve your cause well. Ahem!”

  We’re coming, we’re coming, our brave little band.

  On the right side of temperance, we now take our stand,

  We don’t use tobacco because we do think . . .

  And here I hold out the note as well as my arms, and then conclude.

  That the people that use it are likely to drink!

  There is a roar of approval from the ranks of men who hold up their pipes as I swing into the chorus . . .

  Away, away, with rum by gum,

  Rum by gum, with rum by gum,

  Away, away, with rum by gum,

  The song of the Temperance Union.

  I had heard this song sung when I was last in London, and it is coming in right handy now. Strumpet, am I? I go into another verse.

  We never eat cookies because they have yeast,

  And one little bite turns a man to a beast.

  Can you imagine the utter disgrace . . .

  Again the long pause . . . and then . . .

  Of a man in the gutter with crumbs on his face?

  Again, there are gales of laughter from the men in the crowd, and from my friends on the balcony, but absolutely none from the sullen ladies of the Committee. Thus emboldened, I launch into the next verse.

  Oh, we never eat fruitcake because it has rum,

  And one little slice puts a man on the bum.

  Can you imagine a sorrier sight,

  And I hold the note, hold the note, now . . .

  Than a man eating fruitcake until he gets tight?

  Once again I get the applause I hold so dear. I bow and preen and smile my joy on all around me. I look down and see that Amy has handed off her sign and is coming toward the Pig . . . Yes, Amy, come join us, I am so glad you are going to be with me!

  Then I call out, “Gentlemen, you must let them march on for they are on a noble quest and must not be hindered in their mission! You see there the banner—The Committee on Women’s Suffrage—the COWS! Yes! Now let the COWS through! Let them march!”

  And then I do the unforgivable and call out . . .

  “Here come the COWS . . . MOOOO . . . MOOOO . . . MOOO!”

  And the crowd takes up the call.

  MOOOOO . . . MOOOO . . . MOOO . . .

  As the Committee for Women’s Suffrage finally moves on down the street, Mother Shinn casts me one last glare of pure contempt. I return her gaze . . . Call me a whore, will you? I collapse in laughter on my balcony. Oh glory, oh glory, what a fine day!

  The
call follows the parade down the street. Moooo . . . Moooo . . . Mooo . . .

  As the calls fade away, I hear a pounding of feet on the stairs. That would be Amy, I think, suppressing my final giggles. As she appears, I turn to her and say, “Come, Sister, and join us in celebration, we—”

  But she is plainly not in the mood for celebration of any kind. Upon spotting me, she charges, her eyes furious. She puts the heel of her hand on my chest and stiff-arms me to the wall. My Madeira goes flying and the glass shatters on the deck.

  “Amy! Sister! Whatever is the matter?” I gasp.

  “What is the matter?” she hisses, her generally calm face twisted in fury. “The matter? You have singlehandedly destroyed a march organized by Mrs. Shinn, and you will certainly pay for that!”

  “What? Mother Shinn? A silly old woman who wants to close me down?”

  “She is not a silly old woman, you idiot! Her cause is worthy and she is a powerful political force in this city, with many influential friends! How many friends have you got, Jacky, except for the rabble with whom you insist upon surrounding yourself?”

  Here she casts a glare at Arthur McBride and Molly Malone. Molly blushes and looks uncomfortable, while Arthur looks angry and puts his arm around Molly’s waist and draws her to him.

  “Believe me, Jacky,” Amy goes on, furious. “You will pay for your behavior today, and you can count on that. And all for a Jacky Faber joke. Ha. Ha. Always for a Jacky Faber joke, isn’t it? Anything for a laugh. That’s you all over.”

  I recover myself and lunge away from the wall and stick my finger in her face.

  “A joke? Do you know how many people depend upon Faber Shipping for a living? Do you, Amy? And do you realize that the Pig and Whistle is our chief source of constant revenue? Well, it is, and I will not see it closed down because a gaggle of mean-spirited old women want their men home knitting booties rather than enjoying a pint with their friends at the Pig!”

  “All right, Miss Faber, but what about suffrage, what about votes for women? Do you care? All your classmates do. Surely even you support that.”

  “Even me? I don’t know if I like your tone, Miss Trevelyne,” I say, well steamed. “Oh, yes, the Holy Vote! You know you could buy the votes of most men in this city for a pint of cheap whiskey?”

  “You could not buy the votes of women that way,” she says, chin up and holding my angry gaze.

  “Fine, all of you, have your precious vote, Sister, but don’t try to shut me down, because I will fight back!”

  “Do not call me Sister again, Miss Faber, for we are not related and we are certainly not of the same mind,” she says, spinning, about to leave. “You have my In the Belly of the Bloodhound play. I hope it goes well. It is plain that you would rather enjoy the company of that”—and here she points a finger in the direction of Clarissa Worthington Howe—“rather than mine. Goodbye, Jacky, I am going back to Dovecote. Have a good life!”

  I go to the rail and shout after her as she descends the stairs, “But that Mrs. Shinn called me a whore! In front of everybody!”

  She pauses on the middle step and looks up at me. “Perhaps, Miss Faber, it is because you continually act like one!”

  I got nothin’ to say to that, and stand stunned as Amy Trevelyne goes down the stairs and off.

  “Well,” says Clarissa, who leans languidly against the wall, “it seems our little Miss Amy is rather miffed with you, Jacky.” She looks over the top of her wineglass at me. “I do believe my glass is empty. Why is no one attendin’ to it?”

  Chapter 24

  We had a heavy, drenching rain last night and for once I was glad not to be at sea. At least it didn’t start till after the Playhouse had closed for the night, so it did not affect business, which was very good—news of the quality of the entertainment we offer is spreading throughout the town.

  So this morning after breakfast, I decide to go out and inspect our garden. The sun has broken through the clouds and it promises to be a fine day, which is fortunate, for I hope for a good crowd at tonight’s Musical Revue. I go around the side of the Pig and am rewarded with the glorious sight of my flower garden. Jemimah directs the cultivation of the vegetables, she being of a practical nature, and I handle the flowers, me being more interested in the matter of ornamental flora. I like having flowers on the tables at the Pig—it civilizes the place a bit and gives it a touch of class. It being summer, the zinnias are doing well, the hollyhocks about shoulder high—I’m trying for the look of an English Country Garden, don’t ya know—and the roses are putting forth brilliant red buds. I can’t wait for them to bloom . . . and, Wait . . . What’s that?

  Over to the left is my little patch of beets and . . . Glory! There, amongst the green beet foliage, a raft of shiny new mushroom heads is poking up, all purple and glossy. Heh, heh . . . Come to me, my little pretties, I gloat, bending down to gather up the full-grown ones and dropping them in my apron. I leave the little ones so that they might prosper and grow and spread my lovely little patch of Purple Passion even further. Now, it is time for me to whip up another batch of my Witches’ Brew—never can tell when it might come in handy.

  Back in the Pig, I find I have the kitchen to myself, Jemimah being out back fussing with her okra, and Maudie cleaning up the bar, so I pull down a saucepan, fill it halfway with water from the pump, and put it on the still-hot stove. As it is coming to a boil, I slice up half my haul of mushrooms and dump them in. The rest of them are strung on a long cord and put up to dry—shouldn’t take too long as the kitchen is quite warm.

  As I toil on, I reflect on last night’s Revue . . .

  We had almost a full house and the audience was a right jolly one. The musical numbers went over well, especially the new Spanish ones, with me stamping my feet, flamenco style, and Solomon Freeman strumming away on the guitar. It sure didn’t take that man long to pick up that style of playing. The comic ones like “Three Jolly Coachmen” and “The Cuckoo’s Nest” brought forth gales of laughter. The mood of the audience got even jollier after Intermission when everyone went to the bar for the refreshments doled out by Molly and Joannie. After that, more songs, more stories, more poems, and finally my little playlet, The Villain Pursues Constant Maiden, or Fair Virtue in Peril, starring Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe as Prudence Goodheart. It went over very well with an especially loud whoop! from the crowd when her tear-away dress came off.

  Yes, the Pig and the Playhouse are definitely making money now and it gratifies me. If only Jaimy were here with me to share my joy . . .

  Ah, the pot has put up a fine purple froth, so I pour its contents through a sieve and drain the liquid into a bowl, giving the mushroom residue a squeeze with a masher. There. Now, to add the brandy—half and half—and pour into empty bottles, cork ’em up, then I am done. As I’m cleaning up, Joannie comes in.

  “Whatcha makin’?” she asks, eyeing the now purple bottles.

  “Something I call Jacky’s Little Purple Potion.”

  “Would you let me try a taste of that?”

  “Sure. If I were to tie you to a chair and make sure that Daniel Prescott, or any other young hound you might have your eye on, was not anywhere around. This stuff tends to make people very amorous, very amorous indeed. It seems to make them want to take their clothes off, as well.” I smile to think of that time with Amadeo Romero on a rooftop in Madrid after he had gotten a snootful of this stuff.

  “You sure never needed any help with that.”

  I cast her a sharp look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She smirks. “Don’t forget, Jacky, I was along on the Santa Magdalena expedition, and I was there when you were taken off that rock on the shore of Burma, wearin’ nuthin’ but seaweed and a smile, to say nothing of the Kidnapping of Harry Flashby in London, you again wearin’ only your pigtail and a pair of castanets, and then—”

  “All right, you,” I say, gathering up my bottles and heading upstairs to my rooms, where I will place them in my medicine ches
t for safekeeping. “That’s enough. Where’s Ravi?”

  “Down at the docks selling peanuts.”

  “Good. At least he’s doing something useful other than chiding me for my bad behavior, Miss Priss,” I scold right back at her. “Go help Molly set up for tonight’s show.”

  As I place the two bottles of Purple Potion in my cabinet right next to my bottles of Jacky’s Little Helper—the powerful concentrations of Tincture of Opium that have helped me out of many a ticklish situation—my mind returns to last night’s show, and just who was in attendance . . .

  My dear Ezra was there, just back from visiting Amy at Dovecote, and, alas, I am told she has not yet forgiven me, and that does hurt me. Although, I don’t know if I’ve forgiven her, either. I’m not all that bad, to be treated so. I noticed Constable Wiggins in the crowd, too, but he didn’t pull anything—aside from drinking for free at the bar . . . grrr—and I thought I recognized a few members of the COWS, but I can’t be sure . . . Maybe they, too, need a bit of fun.

  I further noticed that the Hunchback stood in the standing-room section, leaning on his stick. Hmmm . . . Strange that . . . I would not have thought that he would like what we have to offer. Oh, well, I hope we brought the poor man some cheer.

  Enough of that. I’m off to prepare for the show.

  Chapter 25

  James Fletcher