by L. A. Meyer
Oops. Time to go to Music. More later.
The music classes are going well and I'm practicing as much as I can on the flute that Maestro Fracelli has lent me. You got to blow it from the side, and right off I couldn't get no sound out of it at all but now it's going better. I'm learning to read music—Amy is helping me with that as she knows how to play the harpsichord powerful good and reading music sort of goes with that. I know it's going to be handy 'cause I'll be able to write down tunes I make up and I'll be able to do other people's tunes without having to be there listening to them doing it.
So, actually, now that I've written it all out, I guess I don't hate it here at all. 'Cept for the fact that you're not here. I miss you more than you can know.
All my love always,
Jacky
Chapter 8
Dear Jaimy!
A ship! At long last a British warship! It's now the 27th of September and my month-long letter shall now go out to you! It is the Shannon and I must gather up all these papers and make a packet and I must make my plans to get out and go down to the docks!
Blot blot kiss kiss and Godspeed this letter to you!
All my love forever and ever and ever,
Jacky
I think about telling Amy about my plan to go to town today, but then I think better of it—better she should just think I am off with my dear Gretchen again, and that makes me think that maybe I should take Gretchen down cause it would be faster but, no, best not to attract notice. I bind up the packet of letters and the miniature of me, which I know ain't good enough but I'm sending it along, anyway, and I bind them up in oiled paper that I got from Art class to keep them safe and I get some sealing wax from Penmanship and drops a great gob of melted wax on the edge of the folder and then presses me thumb into it to hold it together and make it personal-like and then, after Penmanship, I tucks it in my bodice and shoves me whistle up one sleeve and me shiv up the other cause who knows what I might need it, and then I am off and out through the kitchen and out into the world. I've got a couple of hours and I am sure to be back before tea.
I cut by the side of the school so no one sees me go and cross Beacon Street and I plunge right into the Common amongst the black-faced sheep who go baa and I push their woolly fat rumps out of my way and I joyously run down the swale, by the cows and goats. I come out on Common Street and go up that to Tremont and then down Tremont till I hit Court Street. I don't know these streets except for their signs as I'm just heading pell-mell downhill to the docks where I see the Shannon sitting all pretty at the wharf.
Now I'm goin' on Court Street and I know it's that 'cause there's a courthouse there and behind it a jail and next to that, oh, Lord, there is a pillory with its head hole and hand holes. I'd seen poor blokes in these stocks in London, with their heads and hands stickin' out about to die from tiredness and shame and people throwin' stuff at 'em, and there's a stake there, too, prolly for the whippings. I hurry past all that.
Court Street turns into State Street and that leads down to Long Wharf, where the Shannon is moored alongside.
It is a glorious day with the sun shining and the wind whipping the Shannon's flags about, and she looks in wonderful trim all polished and painted, and I trips it up the gangway and the Officer of the Watch, who is a very well-turned-out young man, comes up before me and says, "I'm sorry, Miss, but no females are allowed on board without—"
"Begging your pardon, Sir"—and here I does my best and lowest curtsy and brings the eyes up under the eyelashes—"I come not to visit but merely to ask that you carry this letter to my very dear friend Midshipman James Fletcher of 9 Brattle Lane in London," and I hand him the letter.
He bows and takes it and says, "I am acquainted with Brattle Lane and will consider it an honor to convey it to a fellow sailor who is lucky enough to be in the favor of one such as you."
I blush the blush and bat the eyelashes and say, "Vous êtes très galant, mon capitaine," proudly using some of my new lady talk.
"Et tu es tres belle, Mademoiselle," he says. I do not miss the familiar tu but I let it pass.
"Thank you, Sir," says I. "And the mail you carried with you here?"
"Already delivered to the post office, Miss. Sorry." Ah, well. It's too early for a letter from Jaimy. It's only been a month or so.
I'm looking about me at the ship with its lace and shiny brass and things so familiar to me. I look up at their foretop and my throat tightens and my eyes mist up. It is very close to the Dolphin in all things, and I thinks I'd better leave now before I make a fool of myself, something I find I'm very good at.
The young man notices my distress and says, "Depend upon it, Miss. Your Mr. Fletcher shall receive this letter."
"Thank you, Sir. Good-bye." And I turn and go back down the gangway and try to walk with my head up away from the ship. The old sights, the old sounds, the creaking, the ... No, I will be strong.
When I am a safe distance from the ship I let myself slip over into a few tears and then I look out over the harbor. There is a wonderland of wharves down here. There are at least fifty wharves with ships at em just within my sight. If I was higher, I'm sure I should see at least twice as many. It is a seafaring town, no mistake about that, what with all the chandlers and shipfitters and victuallers and the taverns and the ropewalks, the huge long buildings built solely for the making and twisting of long lengths of rope.
I feel better now, knowing that my packet will get to Jaimy's house.
I don't want to leave the familiar sights and sounds of the port just yet and I figure I've got some time before High Tea and prolly wouldn't be missed, anyway, so I climbs up on a piling at the end of the pier and look about at the scene spread out before me, all flags and rope and pitch and tar and wooden ships and iron men, and I pull out my whistle and start to play.
I start out with "The Mountains of Morn," and then keepin' in the slow and sad mode, I does the "Londonderry Air," that sad, sad song of a father sending his son off to war to the sound of the calling pipes. Oh, Danny boy...
"Luffly, Miss, just luffly," I hears a voice say. "But could it be that you'll play sumthin' a bit more merry for poor John Thomas and 'is mates what had had enough of sadness and woe and hard times?"
I pops open my eyes and sees a group of sailors standin' in front of me. They look like they're just off the ship and heading for a bit of fun. A huge red-bearded brute seems to be the one what spoke, him grinnin' from ear to ear and flippin' a coin in an arc toward me.
The beggar in me reaches out and snatches the coin from the air without thinkin' and drops it down my front to free up my fingers and I hops off the piling and rips right into "New York Girls," a real rousin' tune that's sure to please this crowd.
It does. They whistle and stamp and some of 'em roar into the chorus of "Oh, you New York girls, can't you dance the polka" and John Thomas crosses his arms and starts in to dance, which causes his mates to cheer and shout, and so I starts into dancin', too, and that gets 'em cheerin' louder, and so I goes faster and faster and I had forgotten how much I love this singin' and dancin' and showin' off that I completely loses myself in it all, I love it so, and then John Thomas crows out with, "You can't match this step, girl!" and I taunts back, "Can, too!" and, though a part of me thinks that maybe I shouldn't be doin' this, I lifts up my skirts to show the steps and I does the step he did and then I tops it with one of my own and then...
And then I notice that they've all stopped dancin' and singin' and foolin' around and are slinkin' back and lookin' at somethin' over my shoulder. Then I feels a heavy hand on me shoulder and I hears a squeaky male voice that says, "Come with me."
I turns around and looks up into the sweaty face of a man with round, fat, pink jowls.
"Who are you?" I ask, all fearful and stupid and not likin' this turn of events at all.
His eyes are almost buried in the folds of his cheeks and they peer down at me with a feverish glint. He wears a black hat and a coat with a high collar that
bites deep into the flesh of his neck. He carries a stout stick.
"I? Who am I, it asks? Well, I'll have it known that I am Constable John Wiggins, the High Sherwiff of Boston." He smugly chuckles. "And you, my girl, are a dirty little twollop what's under awest for Lewd and Lacsiwious Conduct!"
He's got me in the jail now next to the courthouse that I saw on my way down to mail my letter, back when I was happy and didn't know it, and he prodded and poked me with his stick the whole way here with me wailin' and beggin' for mercy but not gettin' any and once I tried to run away down an alley but he caught me and clamped his hand on me neck and I'm cryin', "Let me go let me go let me go..." And he says, "Let you go? I'll let you go when your back is stwipped and stwiped!" And I wails, "Stripped and striped, oh no!" and he keeps his hand on me neck the whole way back and again I see the stocks and the horrid whipping post, oh, please...
Now we're standin' in an open space in front of some cages and he goes over me top part and finds me shiv tucked up me sleeve and looks at it and gives a low whistle. "Well, you are a rum little tiger, ain't-cha? And with a sharp tooth, yet." And he grins and says, "We'll have to find out if you've got any more teeth on you, won't we now?"
"Oh no, Sir, please," I pleads.
He kneels down in front of me with a grunt and says for me to hold me damn tongue or he'll fetch me a whack alongside me head and so I shuts me mouth on the tears of shame that are rolling out of me eyes and down me cheeks as he sticks his hand under me dress and runs his hand up the inside of me legs and I gots to stand there and take it and take it till I thinks I'm gonna lose me mind and me chest is racked with sobs and I starts a high keening sound and my spinnin' mind thinks over and over Dirty and shameful yes, shame on you Jacky Faber the finest of ladies, oh yes just the finest of the ladies, and oh Jaimy I'm so sorry, this is so dirty and shameful, I'm so sorry, I can't help it I can't help it I—
"So. Up the skirts again, eh, you old dog?"
Dimly, I see through me shame and misery that a stout woman has come into the room.
The constable removes his hand from messin' with me lower parts and stands up to face the woman.
"Now, Wife, I was doing my duty checking the mis-cweant for contwaband," he says, all red in the face. "Just look at this wicked blade, Goody. We should stwip the female down, we should, as she might wewy well have another."
Missus Constable casts him a shrewd eye and says that we'll see about that. She pats me all around and sticks her hand in all me private places, then spins me around and does it again and says, "There's nothin' there, 'cept this toy." She holds up my pennywhistle for her husband to see and then flings it into the nearest cage, where it clatters across the stone floor. Then she puts her hand in the middle of me back and shoves me into the cage after me poor whistle.
"Get in there, you little hoor," she says. "And you can stop with yer caterwaulin', as your tears will buy you scant pity here." She takes a large key from a string around her waist and jams it in the lock to my cage and turns it home with a large clack. "This will be your new home, sweetie, at least till we take you out in the morning to Judge Thwack-ham's court. Then it'll be out to the whipping post with you, for sure!"
She gives me a big gap-toothed smile. "You sleep tight, now."
The constable and his wife have left the cell block and I am left alone to take stock of my surroundings and to contemplate my doom. Mistress is gonna kill me, of that there is no doubt. But will I be publicly whipped, too?
There is a narrow wooden bench along the back wall. Next to it is a slop jar. At the other end is a water bucket with a ladle in it. There is a tiny window up high and through it I can see nothing except that night has fallen. That is all. The shame the shame, why couldn't I just have mailed the letter to Jaimy and gone hack home, why cant I he good, why cant I ever he good, why cant...
I go over and sit on the bench and I reach down and pick up the whistle and put my fingers over the familiar holes, and it gives me some comfort as I sit there and wait for whatever's gonna happen to me.
I notice that there is another cage that butts up to mine and has the same bench and same slop jar in it. Other than that, there's a pile of dirty rags in the corner.
I don't want to think about what they're going to do to me or what Mistress is going to do to me, so I lift my whistle and play, as I have done so many times before when I'm down and feelin' low, my "Ship's Boy's Lament."
I'm about halfway through it and I'm hittin' the high notes as long and as mournful as I feel and—
"That's lovely, Miss, but maybe some other time as my poor head is throbbin' somethin' awful and a high tune ain't quite the thing for it right now and poor Gully MacFarland is more in need of a drink from your bucket than for a tune from your pipe."
The pile of rags in the next cell has risen up and become a man. Sort of a man. What once was a man. A very dirty and tousled man. A man who reaches out a grimy paw through the bars toward me.
I shrink back against the wall.
"Now, now, Miss. It's just a drink from that bucket of water that you have there and I have not and that I am wantin' right now. just a little drink of water to soothe the poor throat of Gulliver MacFarland, the Hero of Culloden Moor, who has fallen on hard times through no fault of his own, the good Lord only knows."
I look at the water bucket and its dipper and then I put my whistle back up my sleeve and go to it. The water don't look none too clean—there's a couple of dead spiders floating in the scum that sits on top of it. I pull up the dipper so that the spiders and the scum slide off the water left in it and I take the full dipper and walk across the cell. Being very careful not to have any part of me or my clothing within reach of his outstretched hand, I stretch out my arm and pass him the dipper.
He brings the ladle shakily to his lips, losing a lot of its contents on the way up. He sucks avidly at the water, some of which goes in his mouth and the rest of which runs down through the grizzled stubble on his chin, down his neck and into the filthy lace collar of his shirt. Then he stops suddenly and his ashen face turns a paler shade of white and his eyelids droop and he lets the dipper slip through his fingers and clatter to the floor. He staggers back to his bench and flops down and sticks his head in the chamber pot and throws up, long and loud with much cursing and horrible and disgusting retching sounds.
I'm looking him over, tryin' not to be sick myself. He's got on what was once a blue uniform coat and dirty brown knee breeches with loose buckles and torn stockings below, and, curiously, a tartan plaid sash across his chest.
At last he's done. He gets back to his feet and unsteadily comes back to the bars between our two cages and stands there weaving.
"Give me some more, girl."
I look down at the dipper. It is too close to his cage.
"Kick it over here and I will," I says.
He puts his leg through the bars and kicks the dipper, skittering it across the floor. I pick it up and fill it again, again without spiders, and hand it to him at arm's length. He drinks, and this time he keeps the water down. Satisfied, he flings the dipper back into my cell.
He leans his face against the cold iron bars and lets his arms dangle through. "So, what've they gotcha in for, my pretty little miss—"
I don't get to answer 'cause of loud shouting and laughter from outside the outer door through which the constable and his bride had disappeared after putting me in here, and the door bursts open and a gaggle of brightly dressed women are thrust into the room followed by Constable Wiggins with his club and his wife.
Goody Wiggins waddles over and unlocks my cell and starts shoving the women in. There has to be at least fifteen of them, and every one of them drunk and in high spirits, it seems. I retreat to my bench and sit down and try my best to look invisible.
The key once again locks the cell door and the women mill about and one of them, a large woman with a great expanse of chest and a huge mass of tightly curled bright red hair, spies the man in the next cell and b
ellows, "Well, if it ain't Rummy Gully MacFarland! Let's have a tune, Gully, damn your eyes! Wiggins busted up a fine party and we ain't done with our carousing yet!"
The other women shout out their agreement. Several link arms and dance about. The air is thick with the smells of perfume and ale, which have mixed with the smell of the man's sickness, and I don't think I've ever seen so much bright clothing in one room before and I'm getting dizzy with it all.
"Sorry, Hortense, my dear," says this Gully, "but that fat fiend over there has taken the Lady Lenore into his foul keeping and I am helpless to entertain you without her."
"Keep it up, Rummy, and I'll break your damned fiddle over your damned head and you'll never play the damned thing again," growls the constable as he and Goody take their leave. The man whose name is Gully don't say nothin' to that, so I guess he takes the threat with all its damnings for real.
"That one there can give you a tune, though," says Gully, pointing at me. The crowd turns as one to gaze upon me cowering on the bench, where I am trying my best to fade into the stonework of the wall.
The one named Hortense comes over and looks down upon me and grins widely, her hands perched on her ample hips. Her cheeks are rouged as red as her hair and she has a round black patch the size of a penny on one cheekbone. She is showing a lot of powdered chest.
"Hey, Mam'selle," she calls over her shoulder to someone in the rear of the bunch, "come see what we've got for you."
