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

by L. A. Meyer

  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

  I had fully intended to leave you and this town forever upon the arrival of Mr. Chen’s ship, but I have decided to give you a chance to explain some things so that we might again be reconciled.

  With that in mind, I suggest a meeting at the corner of State Street and Cornhull at eleven o’clock on Wednesday. Should this not prove a good time for you, I can be contacted at House of Chen Shipping.

  Thank you for your consideration of my request,

  Your Humble and Obedient Servant,

  James Fletcher

  After making up a packet of these letters and stuffing them into an envelope labeled “To Miss Jacky Faber, Pig and Whistle Inn,” I took myself up to that establishment for lunch, and after having eaten, I placed it on a shelf where I knew her employees stacked her correspondence for her later perusal, as I have watched her take the daily mail and read it while she sipped an afternoon glass of wine and prepared for the evening activities.

  There was no one there except for Molly Malone, who was in the kitchen cleaning up, and Clarissa Howe, who never pays me any attention, anyway, so I quietly leaned my envelope up against the other mail on the shelf. Then I made my way back to my rooms.

  Either way, Jacky, this is it for good and ever . . .

  Chapter 39

  Ezra Pickering comes into the Pig and Whistle for dinner and he is not wearing his usual small smile. No, today his face wears an unabashed wide smile.

  “I have news, Miss Faber,” he announces, fairly chortling. “Wonderful news!”

  “Well, sit yourself down, Mr. Pickering, and have some good strong coffee and fine pancakes and sausages,” I say, “and tell me all about it.”

  Molly brings over a cup and plate, and he tucks into his food and gleefully swings into his account of an incident that occurred earlier today.

  “Captain Percy Tooley, aka Pigger O’Toole, was found on the street in front of the revered Old South Church, with his consort Gloria Wholey, both stark naked and making, if you will forgive both me and Will Shakespeare, the Beast with Two Backs! The prayer meeting had just let out and the pious congregation was treated to a very unusual spectacle on their very front steps!”

  Ezra is unable to go on and takes a few moments to collect himself. I, too, am beginning to be convulsed with laughter.

  “The rough cobblestones did not seem to be bothering Miss Glory’s back overmuch, as she seemed to be enjoying herself immensely, as was her consort. There were shouts of ‘An abomination!’ and ‘Like the very beasts of the field!’ from the churchgoers. Some onlookers felt their lewd display gave the actual beasts of the fields a bad name, considering this display was much more disgusting than any instance of normal and natural animal husbandry!”

  I have to put down my cup and cover my face to prevent coffee from snorting out my nostrils. “Please, Ezra, mercy, please!”

  But he goes on, relentless.

  “And then the constabulary was called and the two lovers were forcibly . . . uncoupled . . . which did not improve either of their dispositions. Pigger protested mightily that he was within his rights as a Purple Dragon of the First Level of Aragon to plant his purple seed any goddamn wherever and whenever he wanted to and they could all go piss off. Glory, herself, echoed his sentiments most vociferously, bellowing, “Have a look at this, you blue-nosed buggers!” Then she bent over and presented her bum to the retreating remnants of the Old South’s faithful congregants. She then broke wind in a very loud and resounding fashion, causing her buttocks to flap and shake in an alarming fashion, and causing several of the churchgoers to faint dead away.”

  I am reduced to whimpering, unable to talk.

  “Eventually, of course,” Ezra continues, “the gala proceedings had to end and Pigger and Glory were hauled out to suffer confinement. Pigger they have tossed into the Lunatic Asylum for Men, having been diagnosed by doctors as Permanently Insane, despite all of Pigger’s vigorous protests to the contrary. His allusions to Fellow Brave Knights of the Purple Riding Fire-Breathing Dragons did not help his case. Glory was confined to the Boston Asylum for Females similarly diagnosed. It took five burly deputies to do it, but they finally got her into a cell and wrapped into a strait-jacket, where it is expected she will pass a more calm and quiet evening.”

  I recover myself and manage to wipe my face of coffee, pancake, syrup, sausage, and tears of laughter. I only hope, Joannie, that they give Glory your old job.

  As I calm down, the recount turns a bit more serious.

  “Whatever Pigger and Glory got into,” says Ezra, cutting a glance at me sitting there with innocent eyes, “they were generous and gave a nip of whatever it was to their pet lunatic, Pyro Johnny, for he was later caught red-handed trying to set fire to the courthouse and was arrested, laughing and babbling, and making very little sense. He was, however, coherent enough to gleefully confess to setting a great number of fires about the town—one of which resulted in the deaths of two old people who were too infirm to escape the flames and choking smoke.”

  “Those poor people,” I whisper, no longer laughing.

  “Yes,” says Ezra, rising. “But he will pay for that. And, on the good side, the troublesome reign of terror of the Free Men’s Fire and Insurance Company, Percy Tooley, Captain, is now over. There remains only the Shamrock Hose, Ladder & Pump Company, and Captain Warren’s Sons of Boston Firehouse. Actually, McBride and his boys are right now roaring through Skivareen’s, clearing out the rabble, beating the deadbeats, and pounding them back in to the Faber Shipping line. Without their leader and his man, Wiggins, they are helpless and must suffer to see the Shamrock sign nailed to their door . . . as well as pay their indentures.”

  Ah, Wiggins . . . we still have to deal with him, don’t we?

  “And Miss Amy?” I ask, before Ezra can get out the door. “I believe she enjoyed the production of her play?”

  Ezra looks down as he puts his hat back on. “Ah, yes, she did enjoy that . . . and she wishes you success . . . but she did take accommodations at Cole’s Tavern.”

  “Ah,” is all I say to that. “Thank you for your information. I hope we are ready for the hearing tomorrow?”

  “We are, Miss. I am sure we will be successful.”

  “Thank you, Ezra. Tomorrow at one o’clock at the courthouse, then.”

  Ezra bows and leaves and I heave a great sigh, wondering just how well things will go at the courthouse tomorrow.

  Oh, well, we shall see . . . Tend to business now, girl. There is the stack of mail to consider.

  I take down the envelopes from the shelf and begin to go through them . . . a bill . . . another bill . . . an invitation to a Meeting of Concerned Citizens—concerned about me, probably—a solicitation for money for a political group . . . and then, there’s this . . .

  A plain envelope addressed simply to me, Miss Jacky Faber, Pig and Whistle Inn. I tear it open and find nothing inside except a simple circular advertising the sale of goods down at the House of Chen storerooms. Huh! As if I need reminding of that.

  I toss that and most of the others into the trash and get on with my day.

  Tomorrow, the hearing . . .

  Chapter 40

  The day dawns cloudy and gray and I am not at all optimistic. I get up and climb into my black Lawson Peabody School dress, figuring it my most somber
gear and appropriate for a hearing in which I will be judged as a fit or, more likely, unfit mother for Ravi Ganesh Faber and unfit guardian of Joan Nichols. It does not take much of a kick to get Clarissa out of my bed this morning as she seems to be in an excellent mood, and she wakes up laughing and singing. She even plants a kiss on my forehead as she bounces out of bed. Probably from all the attention she has been receiving for her performances in the play. Well, good for her. I wish her the joy of it.

  It is all to convene at one thirty in the afternoon and I must make preparations. Although Ezra had offered to pick me up in his coach, I demurred, preferring to walk the short distance to the courthouse to clear my head and make ready . . . for the court and other things . . .

  Just before noon, after putting Faber Shipping’s affairs in as good an order as I can, I head off for the court, and no, I do not dress to impress, nor for elegance, nor to please . . . No, at this time, I am just a poor washerwoman intent on her simple duties. I hobble up the street, all bowlegged and bent over, as if from a lifetime of grinding-hard work, cloak on my back, with its hood over my head and face. As I approach the courthouse, it occurs to me that I must resemble that poor Hunchback in some ways, and I grimace at that as I toil along.

  When I reach the building, I do not go in the front door, oh no. Instead, I seek out the servants’ entrance at the back. Once inside, I shuffle down the halls till I find the one that houses Judge Thwackham’s chambers. There, I busy myself in sweeping the floor and pushing the dust into my little dustpan. If a gent goes by, I say, “Pardon, Guv’nor, just old Gertie sweepin’ up, she is, don’t mind her . . .” and they don’t even notice me, as I am beneath their notice.

  I keep my ear to the door that leads to the courtroom and I hear the Judge holding court in his usual blustering way, condemning this poor fellow for something minor, and another poor cove for something even more petty, with Constable Wiggins dragging the poor fellows up to the bar to receive judgment, and judgment they certainly get . . . “Forty dollars or forty days, by God! Take him away!” “What’s this? Why, that is an offense against nature and good order! Six months on the rock pile for him, and he’s lucky I don’t have him hanged as an example! Next!”

  There is a pause in the action and I see the Judge’s servant come down the hall bearing his tray and heading for Thwackham’s chambers. I peek in and see that he places the tray on the table as before—good man!—then he retreats.

  I look about and seeing no one, creep into the room. I waste no time in drawing out and uncorking the small bottle of Jacky’s Little Helper Number Two that I had hidden ’neath my shawl, and pouring the contents into Judge Thwackham’s teapot. I hope it is enough—too much would flavor and cool the tea, too little would not have the desired effect.

  I beat a hasty retreat, and none too soon, for the Judge comes rushing down the hall, intent on his lunch. I am sure he did not notice a poor cleaning woman scurrying around the corner.

  That accomplished, I throw back the hood of my cloak, lean broom and dustpan against the wall, and drop the empty bottle into a waste can. Then I draw a deep breath, fluff up my hair, and enter the courtroom proper. I spy Ezra Pickering seated at a table down in front, and go to seat myself beside him.

  “Busy, Miss?” he asks, with his usual sweet smile in place.

  “A bit, Ezra, but all is in place as far as I can manage it.”

  He gives me a quizzical look but does not press the issue. I look about the room with its tall windows and high podium and lower jury box and galleries, all made of dark wood and highly polished. The place is full of men bustling about in black robes and white wigs, carrying papers and speaking in hushed tones. I spot Mrs. Shinn over there; and Wiggins, of course, is waddling about, full of self-importance. As I came in, he cast me a menacing glance, and I am sure that in the lower recesses of his dim little mind he suspects I had a lot to do with the downfall of his friend and protector Pigger O’Toole. For once he is correct.

  I also see Mistress Pimm seated in the gallery. She does not look at me, and for that I am grateful, as I do not have to meet her eye. I bet you’d sure like to take back my Lady Certificate now, wouldn’t you, Mistress? I think with a guilty grimace. I notice Molly Malone in the crowd also, and Higgins, as well. I give him a nod and he gives me one back. I always feel better when Higgins is around. And I am further pleased to see Amy in the crowd. Well, sort of pleased. I realize she probably just wants to watch Ezra perform . . . or else gather more grist for her Jacky Faber mill. I do not expect her to be very kind to me in her future writings, and I can well imagine the title of her next book: The Rise and Fall of Jacky Faber—from her early days as a thief on the mean streets of London, to her last days as a penitent on her knees in a convent, praying for forgiveness for her wanton ways and misspent life.

  My musings are interrupted when a short, pudgy man stands and proclaims, “All rise, the Court of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts is now in session! Judge Hiram Thwackham presiding!”

  The Judge comes back into the room, looking not at all happy, but that is not out of the ordinary, as I recall. I look for signs on his face that might signal the success of my venture, but can see none. He looks just as mean and cantankerous as ever.

  He sits himself in his high seat, picks up his gavel, gives it a few loud raps, and grumbles, “Well, what sort of aggravation is up for today to ruin a poor man’s digestion?”

  Up pops one of the black-clad crew, a tall, thin bloke with a nose like an eagle’s beak, who announces, “A hearing to determine if one Jacky Faber, defendant, is a suitable guardian for the child Joan Nichols, and a fit mother for the child Ravi Ganesh Faber. The charges are being brought by Mrs. Hester Chumbley Shinn.”

  I recognize that bloke as Prosecutor Attorney Hamilton Brown, the man who tried his best to have me whipped when I last was in this courtroom, a scared kid in a strange land, down on my knees right over there, crying out my despair at being charged with Lewd and Lascivious Conduct. I guess I really haven’t come that far after all, I think with a heavy sigh, from convicted felon to unfit mother . . .

  “All right,” says the Judge, “let’s get this over and done with. Where are these wretched children?”

  Attorney Brown signals to the bailiff at the side door. The man opens it, pulls out Joannie and Ravi, and takes them to the center of the courtroom.

  I take one look at the bedraggled pair and leap to my feet. “This is an outrage! That girl was clean and that boy was unbeaten when they were taken forcefully from my care! Look at them now! They are brought here like that to cast discredit upon me! It is the State of Massachusetts that is to blame here, not me! There is the evidence before you,” I thunder, pointing a stiff finger at the kids, “of merely one week’s worth of the State’s tender care!” A murmur of sympathy is heard running through the crowd as they gaze upon the condition of the two children.

  Joannie is dressed in the same stained asylum shift that I last saw her in. Her hair is filthy and hangs lankly about her dirt-streaked face. She is in a sorry state, but she does not bow her head. Instead she casts a look of supreme contempt all around. It is undeniably the Lawson Peabody Look, make no mistake about that. Good girl! They did not break your spirit in that awful place!

  Ravi makes a move in my direction when he sees me, but is restrained by the bailiff. He, too, is dirty, but in addition, there are cruel marks of abuse on his face—a large purple bruise, an eye swollen shut.

  “It is not your place to object, Miss Faber,” says Prosecutor Brown, looking down his long nose at me. “Sit down. We have proper procedures here and we will follow them. You will get your chance to testify in this matter.” He pauses, then says, “I call to the stand Mrs. Hester Chumbley Shinn.”

  Mrs. Shinn gathers herself up and advances to the witness chair. She states her name and address and is sworn in. She sits, adjusting her skirts and looking over at me with complete disdain.

  “Perhaps you will tell us why, Mrs. Shinn, you ha
ve instituted these proceedings?”

  That’s about the last civil thing that is said this day.

  “Because that slut has no right to those children,” she shouts, pointing a finger at me. I start to rise in anger, but Ezra puts a hand on my shoulder and holds me down. “She runs a low tavern and a bawdy house that puts on dirty plays that appeal to none but the lowest of our society—drunkards, whores, and . . .” Here she puffs up and exclaims, “. . . and Irish!”

  That gets a rumble out of the gallery, half of whom I know have been to the Emerald Playhouse and half of whom are of Irish descent, if not from Ireland itself.

  “Do you have any further evidence of the unsuitability of Miss Faber to act as guardian to these children?” purrs Hamilton Brown, knowing full well that she does.

  “Yes,” she says firmly. “While conducting a peaceful march with my fellow members of the Committee on Women’s Suffrage down State Street a few weeks ago—a march that she disrupted, by the way—I noticed, and many of my ladies noticed, that as we passed the low dive known as the Pig and Whistle, the two children were up in the balcony overhanging the street, drinking glasses of demon rum!”

  I struggle to stifle myself, but Ezra says, “Wait, Jacky, just wait.”

  “Very well, Mrs. Shinn. Do you have any questions of this witness, Counselor?”

  Ezra gets to his feet and approaches Mrs. Shinn. As he does so, I examine the Judge for any signs of change in his demeanor. Alas, no. Maybe he didn’t drink it . . . Maybe he found it too bitter, too musky . . . Maybe the potion needs the addition of the brandy to work, maybe . . .

  “Mrs. Shinn, how can you be sure that what you saw the children drinking was, indeed, rum? Could it also have been whiskey? Rye? Bourbon?”

  “It doesn’t matter, they are all of the same vile color,” says Mrs. Shinn, with a sniff. “It’s all the same, whatever—alcohol, the drink that is destroying this town.”