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

by L. A. Meyer

  But the performance is not the biggest part of that day, oh, no, not by a long shot.

  We return in the early evening, full of high spirits, each of the girls—well, those who yearn for that sort of thing—sure that she has captured the heart of her perfect boy. We, the older and more seasoned types, who have neared the ripe old age of sixteen, are more blasé about the whole thing and pretend that it is just another concert, don'cha know.

  But that is not totally true. What is true is that perhaps I shouldn't have let Randall Trevelyne spend so much time with me, and perhaps I shouldn't have danced every dance with him—surprise! The boys had hired a chamber orchestra, so there was dancing after we girls stepped down from the stage, having just performed a set of songs, all of which were chosen to highlight our pure and wholesome natures, and ending with the Sanctus. Perhaps I shouldn't have cast my eyes covertly at Clarissa to catch her reaction to me dancing with her former beau—former fiancé, till I arrived on the scene, I say to myself smugly—and, oh, I did catch her narrow-eyed gaze directed at me. Take that, Clarissa, you—

  As we prepare for bed, I swear there is an absolute steam of female rapture hovering just above the heads of the girls in the dormitory.

  "Wasn't he just the cutest thing?" exults Elspeth as we are washing up. "Oh, and he was ever so attentive to me! Did you know that we held hands the entire time?"

  It was hard to miss, the two of them making silly cow-eyes at each other throughout the evening, but still, it was sweet to see and I am of a generous nature when it comes to that sort of thing. "He was that, Elspeth, and I wish you the joy of your first encounter with our trouser-wearing opposites," say I, as I towel off my face. Actually, he was a Cabot, so she could do a lot worse than that, when it comes down to it, in the future when she must marry.

  We all go back into the dorm and stand by our beds—the right side of each bed, directly in the middle—and wait for Mistress. She arrives, taps her rod on the floor twice, and says, "Prayers," and thirty sets of knees hit the floor in unison. There is much muffled mumbling, and a lot of it, I am sure, is sincere, and then Mistress's cane hits the floor again and we tumble into bed. The lights will be quickly snuffed.

  But not extinguished quite fast enough. As I pull back the covers, I see there is something lying there on my clean sheets, something that looks in the flickering light like a slab of raw beef, but it is not that, oh, no—it is a petticoat, in my size and probably one of my very own, taken from my drawer, and it is dyed bright red. I am not the only one who sees the thing—I hear titters from some of the nearby beds.

  There are many symbols in our culture: The color blue stands for loyalty and truth, the color white for purity. There are flowers that stand for things, too. If you send a girl roses, that means love. If daisies are presented, the girl knows it means friendship. But red petticoats mean only one thing: a girl of low morals ... a slut.

  I reach down and touch the thing. It is clumsily dyed and still damp, but not wet. She must have planned this. Well, I can plan, too, Clarissa...

  I know I cannot sleep in this bed. I throw the covers back over it and stride toward the door. Amy, who did not see what the bed contained, asks, "Jacky, what...?" Elspeth looks mystified by my sudden departure, too, but I just say, "Never mind. I know I will never be truly welcome here, and I don't care."

  I don't know if either of them tried to follow me out, but I do know that they would have expected me to go downstairs to be with Peg, or the girl Katy Deere, who I know has a room down there, too. Water seeks its own level, at least half the girls would say, and I agree with them. To hell with the snotty little bitches.

  But I don't go downstairs. Instead, I go up, up to my old room in the attic, where I was put before, when I was first cast out from this company. Beds are kept up there for the servants that some of the girls occasionally bring with them from the country, so the room is not often used. After I get to the top of the stairs, I throw open the door and head for my old bed, and—

  I am startled to see the upturned face of the slave girl in the lamplight. She is dressed in her nightshirt and is seated on her bed—my old bed—and she is sewing.

  I gasp and then manage to say, "I am so sorry. I did not know you were up here."

  "It is all right," she says in a soft voice. I detect a French accent.

  "Do you mind if I take that bed over there, next to you? I am not welcome down below right now."

  "It is not my place to mind. But yes, you are welcome here. I-I know you for one of the kinder ones."

  "Thank you," I say and walk around the end of her bed to the next one in line. I pull back the covers and climb in, but I am so furious that I know sleep will not come to me soon. I stare up at the ceiling.

  "Here, I will turn off the lamp," says the girl.

  "No, no, please, leave it on. I won't be able to sleep, anyway." I get up on one elbow and I face her. "What is your name and how do you come to be here?"

  She does not reply for a moment, her head down, seemingly intent on her sewing. Then she lifts her head and looks off into the darkness of the attic.

  "My name is Angelique Marie Therese du Toussaint. I was born on the island of Martinique, in the town of La Trinite. One day, about eight years ago, I was playing on the beach with my little brother, Edouard. My father was out on the sea, in his boat, fishing, and our maman was up at the house, when the pirates came raiding. When she saw what was happening, Maman came running down to the beach to try to save us, but she could not. She was captured, too, along with many others, both black and white." Angelique pauses, then says, "The whites were ransomed. Us, they sold."

  I don't say anything to that, I just look at her. I have seen her many times about, and though she is a slave and follows Clarissa's snappish orders, she conducts herself with a quiet dignity.

  "But why don't you just run away?" I ask, mystified, sitting up now. "Just run out the door. There's nothing she could do, as slavery's outlawed in Boston. I'll help you. I know people who will take you in until we can get you passage back to Martinique. Why don't you do that?"

  She looks down at her hands. "I cannot do that, Mademoiselle. You see, my maman and Edouard are still down at the plantation. I have been told that if I run away, it will go very hard for them. So I do not run away."

  "Damn that Clarissa!" I say through clenched teeth. "How can you stand it?"

  "Stand it? I stand it because I have to stand it." She turns back to her sewing, but in a moment puts up her needle. "Shall I tell you of my life with Miss Clarissa after we were captured?" she asks, with a wan smile on her face. For the first time she looks directly into my eyes.

  I nod.

  "Eh, bien. I was about seven years old when we were herded off the ship at Norfolk and put up for sale at the slave pens. Along with about twenty others, we were bought by Clarissa's father, General Howe. He bought me, especially, to be a companion to his little girl, for she had no playmates, the plantation being far out in the country and she having no sisters. We were the same age. The fact that he did not separate us, Maman and Edouard and me, that he bought all three of us, when he did not need my mother or my brother, was considered to be very kind of him. We were allowed to continue as a family."

  She pauses and looks off, lost in the memory. "I was bought to be her toy, but we quickly became friends. We were inseparable. We played constantly together. We slept in the same room, and sometimes, when it was stormy and the thunder crashed, in the same bed. We wore the same clothes, ate the same food. And, sometimes, as children will, we fought."

  Another pause, then a deep breath. "One day we were arguing over a doll and she slapped my hand and I slapped hers back, something we had done many times before, but this time something was different: Clarissa's mother had come into our room with another servant and both of them saw me do it."

  Angelique gets to her feet and goes to the window and looks out into the night.

  "Clarissa and I were taken to the Great Hall. The Ho
we family was assembled and the entire household summoned to witness what was to happen. I was made to kneel before Clarissa and she was forced to slap my face, back and forth, over and over, till finally I fell to the floor, unable to rise. She did not want to do it. She stood over me, crying just like I was."

  She stops and comes back to face me. "They were teaching me my place, you see. They were also teaching her."

  She sits back down and resumes her sewing. "Things were never the same after that. Things became as you see them now. I was taken out to the slave quarters, and instead of being her friend, I became her slave, something, I then realized, I had always been and had simply forgotten"

  She turns off the lamp, and I lie there in the dark, eyes wide open, and steaming. And thinking. And plotting.

  Chapter 15

  "Higgins, can we afford five dollars for a worthy cause?" It is a Saturday and I'm up for an outing and I've got something in mind. Play my own game, indeed.

  "I believe we can, Miss."

  "Good. I want to deliver it personally. You'll need your gear. We can go quietly out the back." Higgins's eyebrows go up at this and I say, "Don't worry, we shan't be gone long." I already have my cloak slung over my arm.

  "Very well, Miss"

  We go down to his room and Higgins takes off his butler jacket, puts his two small pistols into the pockets of his waistcoat, and then puts on his out-on-the-town jacket. He had purchased these handguns before he left London, and fine pieces they are, being of the very latest invention—they use percussion caps and no longer depend upon the clumsy and often misfiring flintlock. He bought them expressly as protection for me, and I appreciate it. He offered to buy one for me, to keep in my purse, but I would have none of it, as I have seen what guns and cannons can do to the bodies of men. I told him that from now on, it's Peaceable Jack, Honest Mariner. I have laid down my sword and shield, down by the riverside, as the song goes, and I will study war no more. Higgins did not express an opinion on that.

  Higgins takes my cloak from me and holds it open. I step into it and he folds it around my shoulders. I wrap the mantilla around my face and pull the hood over my head. I am well disguised.

  "Good. Now, let's go." Then it's out the back and down toward town. Ah, freedom!

  As we walk along, I ask Higgins about something that has puzzled me for a while. "Why do they want me so badly that they plastered these wanted posters all over the place? I'm just one girl. That was just one little ship."

  Higgins does not reply but instead tips his hat to a passing man and woman. The man touches his hat and moves on. Then Higgins collects himself and replies, "I've done some thinking on this very thing. It has perplexed me, too, and I've come to the following conclusion: It is not that they care one whit about all that. It is that you know how to speak French, and with an American accent. You have shown yourself to be of an adventurous spirit. You have extricated yourself from many tenuous situations. Need I recite them? No? I thought not. You are not shy about donning various disguises, no matter how scandalous. In short..."

  "In short, what?" I can't see what he's getting at.

  "In short, you would make the perfect spy."

  I gasp at the thought. Higgins continues.

  "The new First Lord is very keen on espionage, so I hear. Why, think of it—the Admiralty could put you anywhere—female spies of your knowledge and background would have to be very rare, if they exist at all. So what is the cost of some printed paper in the light of that? Or even the fact that the Navy is putting itself up for some ridicule in this matter by keeping your name in the public eye. The story of a fifteen-year-old girl actually being in command of a Royal Navy ship is being circulated about the fleet, about England itself, making them a laughingstock. To think they are putting up with that to get you back..."

  "They ain't gonna get me back," I say, pulling my mantilla tighter about my face. A coach full of men rumbles past and I turn my head away.

  "That is to be devoutly hoped, Miss. However, if they do get you back alive, and bend you to their will, well, then it will have been well worth those silly pieces of paper. But suppose you are killed instead of captured and they get back your head in a sack? Well, so be it—what's lost? The cost of printing those posters and the reward they would have to pay to whatever blackguard did you in? At least there would be no more ridicule. But if they get you back alive, ah, then it might well be worth all the cost. They could place you right in Napoléon's own court with very little trouble. You are able to act as both the humble chambermaid and the highborn lady. You could even be the very one serving Boney his snails. Which are very good, by the way."

  "I will never be a spy and I will never eat a snail!" I say, rearing back in indignation.

  "Never say never. Is that not one of your numerous mottos, Miss? Besides, they could force you to do it. By threatening harm to those you love. The practice of statecraft can be very brutal, especially when they are weighing the fate of one girl and her loved ones against that of millions."

  I walk along and fume and don't say anything. Spy, indeed!

  A half hour later we turn into Cornhull Street, and there it is, three houses up. A bronze plaque on the side, next to the door, proclaims it to be the home of the Greater New England Society for the Abolition of Slavery. Higgins opens the door for me and we enter and go up to a desk where a well-dressed and handsome young black man is sitting. I am wearing my maroon riding habit, an outfit that I think gives me an air of aristocratic authority.

  "May I help you, Miss?" he says, rising. A very handsome young black man.

  "Yes," I say languidly. "I would like to make a donation to your cause. A donation in the amount of five dollars"

  That gets his attention, as it's probably what he gets in three weeks of pay. He rises and says, "That is very generous of you, Miss. Will you come this way?"

  He gestures toward an open door and I sweep in and see an older woman also at a desk. She stands up and says, "Yes?"

  I take out a small cloth bag and lay it on her desk. "I wish to donate these five dollars to the antislavery cause," I say.

  She smiles and bows and says, "How good of you. It happens that we are having a fund drive and this donation will be very welcome. We are taking gifts from such as yourself and publishing the names of the donors in newspapers all through the United States, in hopes of encouraging other like-minded, good people to join our crusade. We thank you, and the legions of the cruelly oppressed thank you."

  "No thanks are necessary," I say, letting my voice grow soft and languid. I already knew about this sort of thing from my friend Amy, she being highly political and a staunch abolitionist. "Ah thank you for carrying on this holy work." I open the purse that hangs at my waist. "Heah," I say, "is anothah five dollahs to ensure that an advertisement is taken out in mah name in the Richmond paper."

  "How kind. We shall see to it. As a matter of fact, there is a dispatch going down to our southern office this very day, and it will appear within the week," she says with a smile. "And who may we put down as the kind benefactor?"

  "Mah name is Clarissa Howe," I say. "That is Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe of the Virginia Howes"

  Just wait'll Guv'nor Howe gets a load of that! Him owning at least five hundred slaves, and his own darlin daughter ... oh, how I hope it will be hot for her!

  About a week later, at Chorus, Mistress appears at the doorway with a large, well-dressed, and obviously very angry man at her side.

  Clarissa, who is right next to me, exclaims in delight, "Why, Daddy! What a surprise! What—"

  But that's as far as she gets. General Howe speaks not a word as he strides across the room, grabs his daughter by the wrist, and drags her out of the room, out of the school.

  We do not see Clarissa for two whole days, and when we do, I make sure I smile sweetly as I give her one of my best curtsies and welcome her back into our company. Just so's there's no mistake. She glares at me with pure and open hatred. She knows, yes, she knows.
..

  Oh, was ten dollars ever better spent?

  Chapter 16

  "Whoa! Look at the size of that brute!" I exult as the trap breaks the surface. I reach in and pull out the luckless lobster. "He must be three pounds if he's an ounce!"

  "Careful of his claws, Missy," says Jim.

  "Disgusting bug," says Amy.

  "Phylum Arthropoda, class Crustacea, genus and species Homarus americanus" says Dorothea.

  "Don't you let that thing splash me," says Elspeth.

  "Ah, and for sure he'll decorate some gentleman's table tonight," says I, tossing the beast into the live box and wiping my hands on my skirt.

  "Did you know, Sister," intones the ever-cheerful Amy, "that in the early days in Massachusetts it was against the law to feed lobster to the slaves and indentured servants more than thrice a week? Yes, more often than that was considered cruelty."

  "I had heard that, Sister, as you have told me about it more than once, but I chalk it up to the early settlers not knowing that everything tastes better when it is dipped in melted butter. And maybe with a squeeze of lemon, if you can find one. Ah, yes, that is the secret, and that is why this American Homer will be loudly acclaimed by all the dinner guests as he, and a few of his fellows, are brought red and steaming into the banquet!"

  I sit myself back down and say to Jim, "That's the last of the traps. Let's take a bit of a cruise about Spectacle Island over there before we head back in." He nods and puts the tiller over.

  "Isn't this just the most wonderful day? And tomorrow is the field trip!" exults little Rebecca. "With that nice Mr. Harrison and that funny Jerome!"

  I hold my tongue on the wonderfulness of those two. Mr. Harrison is the man who runs the excursion company that will take us out to Peddocks Island tomorrow, and he has been by the school several times to make the final arrangements. Hell, I could take everybody over in two trips with the Star, but that proposal falls on deaf ears. On each of his visits, Mr. Harrison has brought with him his Negro slave, Jerome, and many of the girls are much taken with his antics. Jerome has a permanent silly grin on his face and he frolics about in an out-of-date fancy jacket that is at least two sizes too big for him, and he wears a white powdered wig that is always comically askew. He is an accomplished juggler and amazes the girls with several magic tricks, too. But he doesn't amaze me. "We had many black men on the ships on which I served and they knew their seamanship and were respected for it," I say to Amy, who shares my opinion in this matter ... and they didn't have to act like clowns. This Jerome has cast some japing, rolling-eyed glances in the direction of Angelique, but I see nothing but disgust in her composed face at his amorous displays.