My Bonny Light Horseman: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, in Love and War

by L. A. Meyer

  Jardineaux leaves my side and advances to the high, strong wooden gates that guard the outside entrance to the courtyard. "Pin up her hair!" he shouts as he walks. "The High Executioner does not like to have hair in front of his blade, especially if it is female hair. He swears it dulls the edge, and we can't have that, can we? If the Queen, herself, could have had her hair pinned up on her journey to the same place, then why not this piece of trash?"

  I feel hands behind my neck, taking up what little hair I have and pinning it up and out of the way.

  "Open the gates," shouts Jardineaux, and the ponderous doors swing open. "Observe, English!"

  Through the open gates we can plainly see down to the center of the town, and there, standing like an obscene relic from a more barbaric time, is the guillotine, its blade being once again drawn up.

  "Madame has done her work for this morning, it seems, but she has one more head to take, and all of you will be able to watch. Her head will drop into the basket at noon. I shall make sure the executioner holds it up facing in this direction so that all may see. Au revoir, Messieurs, I hope you enjoy, or at least take a lesson to what awaits the enemies of la République de France."

  With that, I am picked up and thrown, bound to the bascule, into the back of a cart that has come into the yard. The driver chucks the horses, and I am taken out of the prison to my doom.

  On the way to the execution place, I hear shouts of joy. "La Belle Jeune Fille sans Merci! Stand her up that we may see her."

  And they do stand me up, and then put me back down. I am helpless through all of it. And I am called salope and chienne, and any of the number of words they have for me.

  I try to be brave, but then I never was very brave and Oh, Lord, I commend my body to the sea and my soul to Thee and...

  ...and then I am lifted up and the bascule is placed flat down on something and I am facedown again and being moved forward and something comes down wooden and heavy on my neck and I hear a young girl's voice cry out, No, no, please, not me ... please ... Is that me crying out? It must be me, but in all my terror, I don't know. I don't know anything for my mind is gone. There is only the terror ...oh, horror... but through it all I hear a roar from the crowd. Then there is the sound of the hissing steel coming down and then an awful thunk and I feel a terrible blow to the back of my neck. I feel ... nothing ... all is darkness and silence.

  PART II

  Chapter 14

  I awaken to find myself ... I don't know where. I feel around with my fingers and find that I'm lying on my back in what seems to be a box. It is pitch-dark and my head throbs with terrible, thudding pain. I try to recover my senses, but my mind reels and spins and Oh, God, please help me ... My hands, not tied now, lift upward and my knuckles encounter a wooden lid not three inches above my nose. Trying to quell my mounting terror, I move my fingers up to my neck and find that there is no deep and final cut there. What, no wound at all?

  Am I in Hell now, my head restored to my shoulders only to suffer unspeakable and eternal tortures for all of the wrongs I have done? Oh, Lord, was I really so bad as to deserve this?

  I feel the box jostled and sense myself being lifted, what...?

  What if I am still living and this is a coffin and I am being taken to be buried alive, my dying screams heard by none 'cept the waiting worms? Oh, please, God, not that!

  I give in to blind panic and try with all my might to push the horrible lid up and off me. Then I pound my feet against the bottom, but it, too, is solid and does not yield.

  "Shaddup in there or I'll give ye another whack wi' me club," I hear from outside.

  I stop struggling ... If those are the Devil's imps I hear outside, cursing and swearing as they carry me down to Hell, they sure sound a lot like British seamen ... and if this is the River Styx, I'd say that it sure feels a lot more like the waves of the open sea. Maybe...

  As I lie there, it dawns on me that it was not my head that fell into the basket yesterday, no, it must have belonged to some other unfortunate soul who was forced to suffer under the blade in my place. Poor girl ... I pray for her as I lie there waiting to see what is going to happen to me. I pray for Jaimy, and, yes, I pray for myself, as well. It is not something I usually do, but I have been sorely tried.

  Eventually, the boat in which I have been riding bumps against some wharf and the lid is lifted from my box. Two rough-looking coves grasp my arms to lift me upright, then shove me out to stand on the swaying pier. Then I am again bound and a hood is placed over my head and I am thrown in the back of a carriage and it rumbles off. I have a good idea where it is going and I soon find out that I am not wrong.

  The carriage stops, muffled orders are given, and I am again yanked out, led up a flight of stairs, and brought into what I sense is a large room. My hood is whipped off and I behold a man sitting behind a desk, looking at me with a very measured eye. I realize that I have been in this room before, and on that occasion looked out that very same window over there. Then I was in the company of Sir Henry Dundas, First Lord of the Admiralty, delivering evidence of a large spy ring. Now, I suspect that the man at the desk is the new First Lord, Thomas Grenville. My hands are tied in front of me, which I have always found to be a good thing if one is to be bound. There is a loop around each of my wrists and a six-inch length of line between. That might also be a useful thing.

  Bliffil stands next to me, a bandage across his swollen nose. I reflect that this is the second time Bliffil has had his nose flattened because of me—first by Midshipman Jenkins, back on the Dolphin, and yesterday by Jared in the prison. I hope he enjoyed both to the fullest degree, the bastard. I sense some others behind me as well, and I turn to see two men in black garb standing against the wall.

  "This is the one, then?" asks the man at the desk. "Our new spy?"

  Spy?

  "Yes, my Lord," replies the man who stands beside him and who I recognize from the last time I stood in this room—he is Mr. Peel, the Chief Intelligence Officer, a deputy of the Prime Minister himself.

  "Doesn't look like much of one to me," remarks Grenville, doubtfully. He is a slight, bookish fellow who looks like he'd rather be somewhere else.

  "Be careful of her, Sirs, you don't know..."

  "Well, then," says this Lord Grenville, ignoring Bliffil's warning. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

  I stand there in my once-proud midshipman's uniform. The jacket is filthy from the battle and from the time in prison. My white trousers are stained from the times I could not hold my water—first, on the way to the guillotine when I was sure I was to be beheaded, and then in the countless hours in that foul box on my way here.

  "Say for myself?" I say, working up a ball of spit. Having accomplished that task, I launch it toward Lord Grenville's left eye, and my aim is true. He recoils in horror, the spittle dripping down his wellborn cheek. "That's what I have to say for myself!"

  "My word!" he bleats. He pulls a handkerchief from his sleeve and wipes away furiously. "Such a thing! I never!"

  "I told you so!" bleats Bliffil. "We've got to—"

  But I don't let him finish.

  "Say for myself?" I repeat and launch into a fury such as I have never felt before. "You degrade me and bring me to stand before you in my own stink and shame and disgrace like this and ask me what I have to say for myself?" I shrink back and hiss at them. "I have seen your work—in America, where your agents hired Indians to murder women and children. Is that what 'Rule Britannia' means? To kill babies and bring someone like myself to this state? Nay, Sirs, I ask you what do you have to say for your own sorry selves?"

  "We do what we must to keep this island kingdom free and safe," says Mr. Peel, coming around the desk.

  "Watch her, oh, please watch her, beware," advises Bliffil. "Please look at my condition..."

  "Since I am sort of a lady I will not use the words here that I want to use, the ones I learned in the street," I say through my teeth. "I will only say, Bless you, Sir, and Bless all the
lords and Bless all the ladies in this land and Bless you, too, Lord Grenville, and Bless the horse that brought you here, and Bless all the Generals and all the Admirals, yes, Bless them all and Bless them so hard that they'll never forget. Finally, oh yes, finally, Bless the Bloody Blessed King!"

  "Miss! Calm yourself!" cries Lord Grenville, plainly distressed over the turn of events.

  "I won't! I don't care! You can't do any more to me! Kill me! Hang me! Torture me! Cut off me head! I don't care!" I scream. "Do what you want to me! I can't take it anymore!"

  There is a heavy paperweight on the First Lord's desk. I don't know what it is, but to my demented mind it looks like a cannonball and that is what I use it for.

  I reach out with both hands and grab it and before anyone can stop me I lunge across the room and heave it through the window. With a great crash it shatters.

  "Stop her, dammit, stop her!"

  I remember, from the time I was here before, that, even though we are three stories up, outside that window to the left is a drainpipe and if I can get to it, I'll be able to climb down. If I can just reach Cheapside, there will be no catching me. Trouble is, the window is made up of many small panes, and my cannonball did not make enough of an opening for me to get through. Damn! What to do...?

  They are coming at me now, Bliffil and the other two gents, but I reach over and snatch a sizable shard of glass from the window where it still hung in its lead molding—it has a sharp point and its edges are razor keen. I crouch and hold it before me like a knife blade. The two gents step back, but Bliffil does not.

  "I'll get you, you conniving little—" he snarls as he charges at me. His face, what I can see of it behind the bandage, is bright red with rage.

  I take a sidestep, put my weight on my left leg, and bring my booted right toe deep up into Bliffil's crotch.

  He goes Oooff!, staggers, and is about to go down when I pivot and leap up on his back. Throwing my hands over his head, I bring the six-inch piece of cord between my wrists up against his neck and pull back hard. He gives a most satisfying gurgle, and then I put the shard of glass to his throat, right next to his jugular vein. Thank you, Professor Tilden, Mr. Sackett, and Dr. Sebastian for your excellent Anatomy lessons. I jab it in just far enough to draw a little blood, a thin stream of which runs down across the glass and over my thumb to fall on the floor.

  "You there," I shout to the taller of the two so-far silent men. "Open the window or I will cut his throat and you will be less one miserable agent. Do it now."

  But the man looks over at Mr. Peel for orders, and Mr. Peel shakes his head sadly and says, "No, Mr. Carr, do not do that. Mr. Bliffil, though he has done well in this matter, is expendable, as we all are expendable, as it were, in this battle against Napoléon and his minions."

  Mr. Peel comes up in front of me, as Bliffil and I do our deadly little dance, and says, "Give it up, Jacky Faber, for there are grander things for you to do than that. Things that your country might someday thank you for."

  "My country? My country?" I ask all incredulous. "My country has done nothing but abandon me to the streets, deceive me, denounce me, hound me, and finally run me down like a dog. My country? What country is that?"

  "You may say that, Miss, but we know that you have performed admirably in defense of that very same country in at least three actions. You cannot put all that up to your sense of adventure and innate greed. Now lay down your blade and let poor Mr. Bliffil go. He looks the worse for wear in his late encounters with you. Please. Do it now."

  I know there is no way out, so I relax my grip to let the shard fall and reluctantly remove my garrote from Bliffil's neck and let him fall to the floor.

  "That is good," says Mr. Peel. "Mr. Bliffil? Ah, Mr. Bliffil, as soon as you are recovered, you may be excused. You have done admirable work in bringing her here, and you may expect promotion and monetary reward."

  He nods to the other two gentlemen who lift Bliffil under his arms and carry him to the door to put him out.

  "Whatever are you thinking, Sir?" asks First Lord Grenville, completely mystified by what has gone on here.

  "I am thinking, my Lord, that she is just the thing," says Mr. Peel, beaming at me.

  Chapter 15

  The First Lord excuses himself and leaves the room a few minutes later, pronouncing what has gone before to be extremely distasteful to him, and lets Mr. Peel take over the proceedings.

  I am immediately put into a chair and tied to it by Mr. Carr and his partner, and the proceedings begin in earnest.

  "You must forgive the First Lord. He is more interested in his books, his library, and his studies than in these rather distressing affairs of state. There have been three First Lords since you met with Lord Dundas, but I remain constant, I am always here. It would be well for you to remember that, Miss."

  "Ah, so Lord Grenville does not have the stomach for watching you hurt an innocent young girl?" I say, trying to keep my head up, which is hard, for my arms are pulled around the back of the chair and my wrists are tied tight. "He does not want the joy of watching you torture me? How odd. I thought it would be one of the benefits of his job."

  "What makes you think we are going to torture you?"

  "Your men have done it to me before."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes, your Mr. Flashby put his hot cigar tip to my bare leg this past summer on the Mississippi River. I can expect nothing less from the likes of you. You are cruel and heartless and evil. So just do it. I have no secrets nor information I can tell you to prevent it. You will hurt me and I will cry and then you will have me taken out and killed and that will be that."

  "Ah. Flashby. Well, he does have his methods. But his techniques are not mine. And I have been informed that you paid him back in full. By the way, we haven't heard back from his associate Agent Moseley for quite some time. Do you have any idea what became of him?"

  "The last I saw of that particular tub of rancid lard was when I had him stripped down to his drawers, put the fear of God in him, and then threw him over the side of my riverboat. He walked the plank, as it were, and if he has not yet crawled back to you, then he was either scalped by a hostile Indian or eaten by ally-gators. If the former, I wish the Indian the joy of his scalp, and if the latter, I hope the reptile did not suffer indigestion."

  Mr. Peel laughs. "Oh, you are a pistol, no doubt."

  "And as for torture, what do you call what you did to me yesterday if not the cruelest of torture? Making me think I was going to be beheaded, then keeping me in that box all that time."

  "We want the French to think that La Belle Jeune Fille sans Merci is dead, so they would no longer look for you." He pauses. "And we wanted to show what we are capable of."

  "That poor girl..."

  "A common prostitute and thief. She had already been condemned and was ... convenient for our little charade. You are surprised we were able to pull off something like that? You see, we have operatives everywhere, and they are very adept at subterfuge, very skilled indeed. And, of course, money talks, and it speaks both English and French, most fluently. We paid a lot of money for you, my dear."

  "So what do you want from me then, in return for your blessed money?"

  "Now you are being disingenuous. You heard the First Lord say the word 'spy'?"

  "I did, and I was not pleased. I don't like spies and spying. It all speaks of treachery and betrayal to me. I know some of both."

  "I'm sure you do, but that is beside the point. I will be direct: We want to place you in Paris, as a member of a dancing troupe, a corps de ballet, as the French call it, to gather information for us."

  "That is all very good, but I don't know how to dance like that."

  "You will be taught, and we know you to be a very quick study."

  "But what kind of information could I get as a mere dancer?"

  "None. But the gentlemen of Paris—some of them men of business and commerce, but also some of them Colonels and Generals and even Marshals in the military—t
ake great delight in escorting these dancers about in the nightlife of the city, as these girls are known for their beauty, their willingness to prance about in scant costumes, and their somewhat questionable morals."

  "Ah. So you would have me prostitute myself, then?"

  "You will do whatever is necessary for King and Country."

  "Do you realize that I am scarce sixteen years old and yet a—?"

  "Ah, yes. Dr. Sebastian's report. Bliffil told me about that. Remarkable ... but it holds very little weight with me. Every girl sells her maidenhead for a price when it comes down to it—a secure future, a warm home, a man to protect her, food for her children..."

  "But never for love, I suppose."

  "Not in my experience, no."

  "Then I pity you. Shall we get on with this? My wrists and hands are going numb."

  "Mr. Boyd, will you loosen her bonds a bit?" I feel the fingers of the other gent fiddling with the rope that binds my wrists. It is slackened and blood once more flows into my hands.

  "And if I refuse to do any of this?" I ask.

  "You don't really have a choice, as I see it. We could throw you into Newgate, and you would be hanged this coming Monday. Let's see, that's only four days from now. Will that give you time enough to get right with the Lord?"

  "So do it. I don't care. I made my peace with God yesterday at the foot of the guillotine. You can't frighten me anymore. So go bless yourself."

  "Very colorfully put. Consider me blessed. However, we have other things for you to think about. For instance, there is the matter of a Mr. James Emerson Fletcher, lying grievously wounded in a French prison ... as well as the London Home for Little Wanderers. A worthy enterprise and one that reflects very favorably on your charitable nature—however, there is the question of proper licensing for such an orphanage ... fees, you know ... and back taxes ... Oh, I am sure the Home would win in the end, as it has some powerful friends, but till then, the poor children would be put back out on the streets. And there is your grandfather to think of ... and the staff."