In the Belly of the Bloodhound: Being an Account of a Particularly Peculiar Adventure in the Life of Jacky Faber

by L. A. Meyer

  "You are sure you know how to get there by boat?" asks Ezra, when I come out of the cabin with my chart.

  I fix him with a gimlet eye. "You're asking Jacky Faber, Queen of the Ocean Sea, if she can find her way about well-charted Boston Bay?" I snort.

  Ezra cuts his eyes to Jim, back at the tiller.

  Ooops...

  But I don't think the boy heard me stupidly use my real name, he being too concentrated on making a good showing of his sailing ability on this, our maiden voyage together. And actually, he's doing quite well.

  "I meant no offense, Miss," says Ezra.

  "I could never take offense from you, Ezra, you know that," I say, plopping down next to him and spreading the chart out on my lap. I'm wearing my maroon, gray, and dark green riding habit, the one that Amy gave me for Christmas two years ago, in hopes that the sight of me in it might warm her now chilly heart. I'm starting to feel a little nervous about this coming reunion. "See that big island there? That's Thompson Island. Right here on the chart." I point to it and Ezra looks at it. "We'll leave that to our port and steer directly for Quincy. When we go past the mouth of the Neponset River, we'll know we are near Dovecote, as that river forms the northern boundary of the Trevelyne estate. Jim, come a few degrees to starboard. There, that's good."

  We are heading in toward Dovecote's boathouse, with me again at the tiller and Jim up on the bow, looking down for rocks. I suspect there will be none, otherwise the boathouse wouldn't have been put where it is, but one can't be too careful—I'd hate to show up at Amy's place, drenched and bedraggled from having hit a rock, swamped and capsized a mere twenty feet from the shore. As we slowly work our way in, I look at the beach and think of the many hours Amy and I spent there, she sitting on the bank reading from a book of poems or some dreary political stuff, me with my skirt off and my drawers rolled up, wading in the water. Me turning over stones to see what was under them, she begging me not to eat what I found. The scavenging orphan in me does die hard, I must admit, and I know that sometimes I am a scandal to other, more well-bred people—in this and other ways.

  "All clear, Miss. I can see the bottom now and it seems to be smooth mud or sand."

  "Good. We'll moor starboard side to. Ready about. Hard a'lee."

  I put the tiller toward the boom, spinning the boat about, drop the sail halyard, and slip in next to the dock, pretty as you please. You may be pleased with your own performance today, Jim Tanner, but this is what's called good boat handling.

  Jim jumps over and secures the lines, and Ezra and I begin our walk up to the main house.

  "Make her secure, Jim," I say over my shoulder, "then go up to that house there. Go in through the kitchen in the back. I'll make sure they give you something to eat. On your best behavior, now. Remember you are a representative of Faber Shipping, Worldwide."

  The other two members of that same corporation link arms and trudge up the hill toward Dovecote Hall.

  After renewing acquaintances with the downstairs staff, I am informed by a serving girl named Charity that she is about to take a dinner tray up to Miss Amy, as that is her usual wont these days and ... Oh, Miss, she won't eat hardly nothin', and almost never comes out of her room, she don't, and she's gettin awful pale..."Well, we'll see about that, won't we, Charity," I say and take the tray from the girl and go up the stairs and down the hall to Amy's room and knock on the door.

  A faint "Come in" is heard from within.

  I open the door and say, "Your dinner, Miss."

  I see her there, seated at her desk, facing the window. She has on her black school dress and has gone back to putting her dark hair up in the severe bun that she had worn before she was graced with the dubious joy of my friendship. Her head is down and she is scratching away at a paper with her quill. She lifts that selfsame quill and dips it in her inkwell, and then resumes writing. She does not turn around.

  "Put it there," she says, gesturing toward a side table.

  "Yes, Miss," I say, all meek, and put down the tray. Her room is as it was before, all yellow and white and cheerful. Course last time I was in this room, I was on my hands and knees, throwing up into that chamber pot and covered in shame and disgrace.

  I go back to the door and open it, then shut it as if I had just gone out. Then I go back, as silently as I can, and stand behind her and look over her shoulder at what she is writing...

  When sad Melancholy in all his gray and dreary dress,

  Comes to worm his way once again

  Into my wan and wasting mind,

  To writhe and bide in my distressed soul,

  It is then that I rise and...

  Christ, Amy, don't you ever cheer up, and such a pretty day out, too. It seems she is struggling to come up with the next line. I think a bit and then say, "How 'bout ... and tell him to bugger off."

  She drops the quill, ruining a perfectly good piece of paper as well as a very bad poem. I see her shoulders begin to shake and tremble. Then she slowly turns around and looks at me, mouth open in astonishment. I flash her my best openmouthed, foxy grin, but she says nothing and only looks at me as if I were a ghost.

  Abashed, I back away and drop down into a curtsy.

  "I am sorry, Miss, if I intruded upon your privacy and startled you. If you want to put me out, I shall certainly understand." I start to retreat to the door. I knew this was a bad idea.

  She gets shakily to her feet, her eyes filling with tears. Her chin is quivering and I fear she's going to faint dead away, but she doesn't. Instead she gasps, "Oh, Jacky, I've been so desperately worried. I've been..." Then she puts her face in her hands and starts crying, and I put my arms around her and gather her to my chest and make soothing noises and tears come to my own eyes, too.

  "There, there, Amy. Come now. Take this handkerchief. Come, let us sit on the edge of your bed."

  "How could you go off and leave me like that?" She sniffs. "You knew how I loved you, how you were my dearest friend in all the world..." She has lost a good deal of weight and there are dark circles under her eyes.

  I poke at her ribs and say, "We're going to have to get some sausages down you, Miss, that's for sure. You're fair wasting away."

  She continues to sniffle.

  "Well," I say, in answer to her question, "when I left Dovecote in total disgrace, I was sure you hated me—after my drunken behavior at the ball, and Randall, his handsome face smashed because of me, and all. Then when I overheard those men, the ones who had kidnapped me and handed me over to the Preacher, when I heard them say that you had told them where to find me, I just figured you would be happy never to see the front of Jacky Faber again"

  Her back bucks and she starts bawling into her hands again. "Th-that you could think that I could ever b-b-betray you..."

  "I didn't blame you. I figured I had it coming. I usually do ... have it coming, I mean."

  "My f-father had hired those men to bring you back to us at Dovecote, that is why I told them where I thought you would be. I did not know they would take you to the Preacher."

  "Back to us?" I ask, all innocent.

  "To me ... and Randall"

  Ah.

  "And how is young Lord Randall, and the lovely Clarissa, his bonny bride-to-be?" ask I, carelessly arranging the folds of my skirt about my knees, as if I don't really care what the answer is.

  "That is off. Randall sent her back to Virginia the day you left."

  Hmmm. I'd better watch my back very carefully if I ever again meet up with my old classmate and chief tormentor Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe. It'd be all right with me if that never happens, that's for sure. We loathed each other from the start, Her Ladyship and I—she figuring me for the upstart lowborn guttersnipe I really am, and me figuring her for the spoiled highborn snotty arrogant aristocratic brat that she really is. Well, maybe she'll stay down in Virginia and bother them that's unlucky enough to be around her, and not bother me.

  "All right, Sister," I say, banishing Clarissa Howe from my thoughts. "Collect
yourself and I will tell you what has happened since last we saw each other. But, please, please, do not take out your quill for a while—you've already made me famous enough, thank you. But first..."

  But first there is a pounding of boots and rattling of spurs on the stairs outside and the door flies open and there stands Randall Trevelyne, his own beautiful self, wearing a huge grin and looking perfectly splendid.

  "Mr. Trevelyne, how good to see you again." I stand up and start to curtsy but he sweeps me up and I bleat out, "Now you put me down, Randall!" with my feet a good foot off the floor.

  "I'll put you down when I'm ready, my girl! Well met, oh yes, very well met, Jacky!" Randall is wearing a ruffled white shirt, open at the collar, and from the smell of hot horse on him, he has been riding. Or was riding till he got word that I was here.

  "I may be well met, but I ain't your girl, Randall." I put my hands upon his shoulders and look into his face. "But I was very sorry to hear that you were hurt in trying to protect my honor when last I was here, and when I was in a helpless state."

  "Protect your honor? Hah! What nonsense! I was merely trying to haul you off myself for a bit of ravishment of my own when that miserable Flashby interfered. Now, give us a kiss."

  "I don't believe you on that, Randall." I put my fingers to his cheek. "Is that scar from that time?"

  "I count it a badge of honor, my dear."

  "And well you should. Thank you. And I mean that."

  He cocks his head to the side and peers at my temple. "What are these blue specks by your eye? Surely they can't be the latest fashion idiocy from Europe"

  "I did not think they were noticeable, Sir."

  "They aren't. Only when one gets this close." I can feel his breath on my face. He is angling his mouth toward mine. I duck my head and put my fingers to his chin and gently push him back.

  "I must tell you, Randall, that I am still promised to another, and you really must put me down." I say that, but I cannot help but smile at the rogue as I say it. Randall Trevelyne may be a spoiled rake, but he's damned handsome and dashing as all hell.

  "And I must tell you, Jacky, that I've heard that foolishness from you before, and I'll tell you this, too: I do not care if you are promised to a hundred men, as long as I am one of them. Now, enough idle talk. Off to my chambers with the two of us, to drink deeply from the Cup of Love!" And the dog actually turns to carry me out the door.

  "Very poetic, Mr. Trevelyne, but I fear you mean the Cup of Lust, not Love, and though your offers are charming"—and though I have never recoiled from the thought of a bit of a tumble with the beautiful Mr. Trevelyne, I must be good— "nay, we shall not drink from that cup," I say firmly, trying to wriggle free and not succeeding.

  "All right, plenty of time for that later. One kiss and tell me about the blue speckles and I'll let you down, I promise."

  I put my head forward and kiss him on the forehead and say, "They are powder burns I got from leaning over a cannon."

  "Why were you leaning over a gun?" he asks, astounded now.

  "I was aiming it. At the French. At Trafalgar."

  He is even more astonished now. He puts me down and my feet once again touch the floor. He steps back and gives a quick, formal bow, his face now set and unsmiling. "Forgive me. I did not realize I was mishandling a damned war hero." It is plain that he has heard of the Great Battle, and this information is not going down well with him.

  It has always rankled Randall that though he is a lieutenant in the local militia, he has never been tested in combat, while I, a mere girl, have been. Count yourself lucky, Mr. Trevelyne, you who have both your fine arms still hanging by your side and both your fine legs still under you.

  "Those specks are a true badge of honor, not a counterfeit such as I wear. I salute you. You should wear those marks with pride."

  "I wear them because I must, and you must not mistake them for signs of valor, as I have none. I hold male concepts of honor in no great stead. I count myself a coward and have trembled and shaken through any danger I ever was in."

  Randall gives out a snort. "Still, it must have been very exciting to be at that battle. Reports of it have been sweeping the town. They are calling it the greatest naval battle in history."

  Ezra's man Carlson has done his job well, I reflect, and then say, "I don't care about history, and no, it wasn't exciting. It was horrible. I lost many dear friends that day. I hope that I never see anything like it ever again."

  He stands and appears to think on that for a moment. Then he crosses the room and throws himself into a chair. "So now you have two blue tattoos. One upper and one ... lower." He throws one booted leg over the other, his spurs jingling. He seems to be recovering some of his old cheek. That is good—I prefer him this way.

  "Even so, Mr. Trevelyne," I say, giving a slight bob. Randall is one of many, I'm afraid, who have seen my Brotherhood tattoo in the flesh, as it were. I do consider myself to be a good girl, but I do seem to lose my clothing quite often in certain highly charged circumstances.

  "So what brings you back to dull old Dovecote?"

  "Ah, well, I'm in a spot of trouble with the British government and must hide out for a bit." I go over to Amy and put my arm around her shoulders and shine my countenance down upon her. "Actually, Sister, I'll be going back to Lawson Peabody to hide till things get less hot for me."

  "Oh, Jacky, I am so glad!" exclaims Amy, clasping her hands together and squeezing her eyes shut in great joy. Amy, my dear friend Amy, you should already know that a little of Jacky Faber goes a long, long way.

  "I, too, am glad," says Randall, getting to his feet once again. "It will give me time to work on what might be left of your virtue."

  "Randall has been expelled from college for the rest of this term," says Amy, primly. "For duelling. That is why we are honored with his presence. It was the headmaster's son in whom Randall put a hole."

  "The little prig should have borne his honorable wound with pride," says Randall, looking put upon. "But to hell with it. I am sick to death of schoolwork, anyway."

  "I believe the British Army is hiring cannon fodder for a campaign against Napoléon," say I, wickedly, the old evil rising up in me, "if you are so bored with student life, or life in general. Oh, and the Austrians, too, will be needing soldiers, as Boney's after them now. And with your experience, why, you would surely be made a private, at least. Maybe even a corporal."

  Randall looks at me with fire in his eye, but he nods and decides to smile at my banter. He gets to his feet, bows low, and says, "I believe I saw my sister's fat friend Pickering down below. Shall we all go to dinner and hear more tales of your adventures?"

  Hey, Ezra ain't fat, he's ... well ... sleek is what he is. Sleek, like a well-fed seal. Or, hey, maybe even a Silkie...

  Dinner is a jolly affair, with Ezra seated beside Amy, and me next to Randall. Randall drinks too much wine, but that's to be expected. At least he is not the kind to get mean when he's in his cups but is more likely to sing and tell rude jokes and put his hand on my knee. He actually gets on well with Ezra and refrains from insulting him, which surprises me. Maybe he figures that it wouldn't hurt for one as reckless as he to have a good lawyer as a possible brother-in-law. He's probably right.

  "You said the British were looking for you?" asks Randall. He gestures for his glass to be refilled, and it is. "What do they mean to do with you if they find you?"

  "I think they mean to hang me. I believe it's been decided that this would be the best resolution for all concerned," I say, as I let my eyes go all hooded. "'Cept maybe for me."

  "What? But why?" This from both Amy and Randall. Ezra already knows, of course, and he sighs and gives out with a wry "Why, indeed..."

  I put my hand inside my jacket and pull out the wanted poster that I had torn down that day in Newport. I hand it to Amy. "That is why. Soon these will be all over Boston. When that happens, I will have to stay a virtual prisoner at the school. As for now, if I keep my face hidden, I beli
eve I shall be all right."

  Amy's eyes go wide, yet again, as she reads. "Oh, Jacky, no!" she says, as she has said so many times before in regard to me and my ways.

  Randall reaches over and snatches the paper from his sister's hand and reads. "Well, I'll be damned. You have been up to some serious mischief. Not only do you single-handedly save Mother England from destruction, you also dip your dainty little toe into the waters of vile piracy. Amazing!" He brings the palm of his hand loudly down upon the table. "I demand that you become my mistress immediately! It has been ordained by the gods of war and of love. One such as you and one such as I? I will hear nothing against it."

  "This cannot be true," exclaims Amy. "Is it?"

  "Wellllll..." The corners of my mouth pull down in a rueful grimace. "It all depends on how you look at it."

  "Perhaps you had best start at the beginning," suggests Ezra.

  "Yes," says Randall, beaming at me with all the lust that's in him. "At the very beginning, and spare us nothing in the telling of it."

  Amy says nothing, but only looks very, very anxious.

  And so after I take a sip of wine, I take a deep breath, then begin to tell it, and, as I did with Mistress, I mostly tell the truth. However, so as to spare Amy's Puritan sense of propriety and so as not to give Randall even more reason to try to jump me, I leave out the naughty bits. Most of them, anyway.

  Later, lying in bed, with Amy sleeping contentedly beside me, I look off into the darkness and smile. Ah, it's good to be back at Dovecote and forgiven my wanton ways, once again.

  Chapter 8

  "Till later, Ezra. Have a good day, and I thank you for everything."

  We have returned from our short stay at Dovecote and are back in Boston, Jim having brought in the Star neatly and tied her securely to the dock cleats.

  Ezra steps carefully off the boat and climbs the ladder to the pier. Jim had found this excellent mooring for her tucked in between the Crane and Woodward's and the Hollowell's wharves. There's a little floating dock attached to the pier that goes up and down with the tides, so she's easy to get in and out of. This is good for Ezra, 'cause he ain't much of a sailor. But he's game, for a landlubber, I've got to give him that.