by L. A. Meyer
She puts her hand on mine and manages to smile. "Of course. Are we not the wild and contrary Valentine Sisters?"
"Yes, we are," I say, sitting up in my saddle and cocking my head to one side. "Now, what's that?" I thought I'd heard a far-off trumpet call and a rattle of drums.
"The local regiment of militia is having their Spring Muster today, as part of the festivities. Over in the field across from the paddock. They came in yesterday and are camped in their tents. They march about and shoot off cannons and other foolishness."
As if to echo her statement, a dull thud of a cannon is heard.
"But why did you not tell me?" I shout joyfully. "Let's go!" and I give Molly my heel and we're off.
"Why not, indeed," I hear Amy say, with a certain weariness in her voice.
We get to the parade ground and I size up the battlefield. There are four companies of about one hundred men each and they seem to be drilling by company, as they certainly are not all moving together. In fact, their drill seems pretty sloppy all around, but then, what can be expected. They are only militia, after all, and not regulars. The uniforms of the men are varied at best, ragged at worst, but the officers are well turned out. There is a lot of bellowing of orders and the ranks lurch back and forth like unwilling beasts being prodded with sticks. I see that Randall and his company are the ones nearest to us here by the road. That is good. I look back up the road and note that I can see up it all the way to the two stone pillars at the entrance.
Perfect.
We dismount and go to the edge of a slight rise and watch. I know that Randall spots us right off, cause of the way he straightens up and struts all the more. I swear he is flexing the muscles of his tail for my benefit. He has on his blue uniform with the tight white breeches and the shiny black boots and his sword scabbard hangs by his side. He has his sword drawn for the giving out of his orders and has on his hat, which I have not seen before. It is like the hats that the officers on the Dolphin wore, 'cept that it's worn with the peaks front and back, rather than sideways. Contrary Yankees, I thinks, but it does look quite dashing.
I check the road. Nothing.
Down next to the drilling troops, not far from us, is a tripod of rifles and next to it, a drum, with sticks and straps. Like my old drum from the Dolphin. Hmmm. Even better.
Randall gives an order, "To the right flank, march!" and half the unit goes right and half goes left. Randall sneaks a glance up at me to see if I have seen the mess. I put my hands to my mouth to stifle my laughter, and Amy says, "Shall I remind you that it was just such a rabble that defeated ... oh, never mind."
Down below, Randall rains a torrent of abuse upon his hapless troops and, kicking and swearing, tries to get them back in order again.
And then I see it. A coach-and-four just passing the pillars and heading down the road toward us, about a half mile away.
"Amy, dear, will you take Millie by the collar so she doesn't follow me. I want to get a closer look at their equipment."
"I do not have to hold her collar. Here, Millie. Sit. Stay. Now what..."
But I am already heading for the drum.
I hang about the tripod of guns, pretending interest in the old flintlocks and keeping an eye on the road and its approaching coach. About a quarter mile now.
I dip down and pick up the drum and slip the harness around my shoulder and take it up a few notches till it sits on my hip just like my old drum on the Dolphin, and I take up the sticks and rattles off a drumroll and then settles into a pattern, and then I sings out as loud as I can.
"Lord Randall he was tall and slim,
And he had a leg for every limb.
But now he's got no legs at all,
For he ran a race with a cannonball!
With me rue dum dah,
Faddle riddle dah whack!
For the riddle with me rue dum dah!"
When I come to the whack! I give the drum rim a hard hit with the stick so it sounds like a rifle shot. All the men are facing me and their delight is plain. They are trying to keep from laughing at their gallant commander's discomfort, but some are not succeeding. Randall's back is to me and I can't see his face, but his head seems to sink down behind his high blue collar, and while I cannot see his ears, I got a real suspicion that steam is comin' out of each. I keep the drum rhythm going and go to the second verse,
"Oh, were you deaf or were you blind,
When you left your two fine legs behind?
Or was it sailing on the sea,
That wore your legs right down to the knee?
With me rue dum dah,
Faddle riddle dah whack!
For the riddle with me rue dum dah!"
Still not enough, Randall? All the companies are now watching this play out. Very well, here's another verse,
"Lord Randall he was long and tall,
Till he lost a race with a cannonball,
Now he sits with..."
That did it. He jams his sword back into his scabbard and turns to chase me. I squeal and slip off the drum and run back up the rise toward the road and I can hear him poundin' up behind me and I run fast ... but not too fast.
Now run, Jacky, that's it, a little bit more now. Let him get right behind you, now get close to the road. Now trip, Jacky, oh poor dear, now trip and fall to the ground, you frail female thing you, and feel the tangle of his legs with yours as he falls on top of you and pins your wrists to the ground. Now look up into his face, Jacky. Why, he don't look half mad at all, does he, Jacky, he looks more, well ... lusty like.
He brings his face down to mine and I turn my face to the right and feel the rasp of his jaw on my cheek, and he tries again and I turn my face to the left and again he misses. Then I face forward and he's about to come down for the prize when he hears the rattle of the coach-and-four and he looks up into the wide-open and unbelieving blue eyes of Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe, staring out the window.
The coach rumbles on. Randall thrusts himself to his feet and calls me a name I wouldn't have thought he would have known, him bein' a gent and all.
I get up on one elbow and watch Lord Randall follow the retreating coach to the house. Then I feel Millie's cold nose poke me in my cheek and I hear Amy say, "Take her back to the house."
I do not take my dinner with the Trevelynes this night, as I am banished by Amy to the kitchen. Fine. Just as well. Let the lovers stew.
I have a fine dinner with Mrs. Grubbs and the downstairs staff, and afterward, I walk out into the evening and go to see Pete in his room. There's a line of rooms built into the grandstand for the visiting jockeys and grooms and it sounds like there are parties going on in several of them, but I look at Petey and know for sure he ain't goin' to any of 'em, as he don't look good at all. He tries to put on a brave front, but I place my hand on his forehead and feel that he's burning up with fever.
"Don't worry, Lass, I ain't never missed a race yet."
"Ain't there no one else what can take your place tomorrow? Take the load off you, like, in case you need more time in the kip?"
"Nah. There ain't enough jocks to go around, and the other owners..." He stops to cough, long and deep, and it racks his small frame. "The other owners ain't gonna be lendin' their jocks to the Colonel—there's a lot of money ridin' on this race. Plus the Sheik don't like nobody on 'im but me. No, 'e wouldn't run for em."
There's a noise at the door and two jockeys in silks burst in and say, "Come on, Petey, there's a rum bash in ... ah, now, he's got a girl. Old Petey! just like 'im! Bring her along, then. Three doors down!"
Pete waves and says, "Righto!" but he don't move.
I ask him if he wants me to get him anything to eat—chicken soup, perhaps—but he says that he couldn't keep nothin' down. Maybe another blanket, though, and so I find a clean horse blanket on a shelf and throw it over him. He says, "Thanks, you're a good lass," and appears to go to sleep, shivering in spite of the warmth of the night and the blankets that are piled on him.
I go to sit with the Sheik for a while, petting him and talkin' low and soft to him while he whickers in the dark.
I sit and I think for a long while, and then I go back to our room.
After I'm all ready for bed, I open my seabag and take out the asafoetida bag that Mam'selle Claudelle put around my neck that night in Boston, and I lay it out with the things I'll be wearing tomorrow.
Just in case.
Chapter 45
Amy wakes up with a huge, worried, shuddering sigh and gets out of bed. We get up and get ready without speaking much. There is not much to say. We can only hope that Petey is better.
Breakfast is a grim affair. I eat, she don't. I put my hand on hers. "Don't worry, Amy, it'll be all right, either way."
"I know," she says. "I just wish it was over."
Well, it will be over at two o'clock, five hours from now, 'cause that's when the race is to be run.
"Come, let us walk down to the sea. It's a fine day. It will take your mind off things." And we do it, and we sit on rocks by the shore and take off our shoes and stockings and wade in the gentle surf. The sea, as usual, calms me, and it calms Amy, too.
The grandstand is full, there's trumpet blasts and horses are being paraded around and there's excitement and gaiety in the air. There's finely dressed women with parasols and there's fine gents decked out in bright jackets, smoking cheroots and hallooing to one another, some placing bets and others covering them. There's plenty of men who look slightly shady and there's some women that wouldn't look out of place at Mrs. Bodeen's, too. And, oh, look! There's a pair of Royal Navy officers! Next to Amy's mum and dad. They must be guests. A captain, no less, and a lieutenant! I must get next to them later to see if they know anything of Jaimy. Maybe at the ball tonight. And they brought some midshipmen with them. We'll have dance partners tonight, that's for sure.
The Trevelynes and their party are in a boxed-off area, I guess to keep the riffraff away from the quality. Well, it ain't gonna keep this piece of riffraff out. "Come on, Amy, let's join your family." She don't want to, but I prod her and up we go.
The Colonel is in his finest uniform and his wife is a froth of pink silk and Randall looks absolutely smashing in a dove gray velvet jacket and Clarissa, of course, is the very picture of beauty in white with touches of lavender. I am in my school dress, it being the only one I have except for my blue one that I made on the Dolphin, and that one I'm saving for tonight's dinner and dance. Amy has lent me a fine hat, 'cause us ladies can't be in public without one and I sure can't wear my mobcap or my school bonnet to somethin' like this.
Besides the Royal Navy crew, there's bunches of other swells and nobs about, but nobody introduces me to none of 'em. Guess it's 'cause of the excitement of the moment. That midshipman looks like he'd like to be introduced, though, but of course he can't move from his spot. These boys weren't brought here to have fun—they was brought to serve the Captain and the Lieutenant. The Captain is a loud, garrulous fellow, but he seems a decent sort, for a captain, while the Lieutenant is a tall, thin, dark cove who's got a pair of mustachios that he continually twirls as his eyes go over the nearby girls. I know what's on his mind, and it ain't horse racin'.
Randall is standing at the rail with Clarissa on his arm. She must have forgiven him, or maybe she just considered it his right as a lord of the manor to cover whatever lower-class girls he wanted. Or maybe Randall came up with a real good explanation, which I wouldn't put past him—he's a clever one, he is, as I know right well. Whatever, she sends a glare in my direction, which I return with a smile and slight, ever so slight, curtsy.
I go to the rail myself, but not close to the young lovers, as I don't want to get into a down-on-the-ground-hair-pullin'-face-scratchin' fight with Clarissa just now, what with everything goin' on, and if I know anything about proud Clarissa by now, it's that she wouldn't be afraid to do it anyplace, anytime.
So I look out over the track, and the jockeys are starting to get on their mounts, the little men all in their colorful silks, each one different depending on the farm they're racin' for. I look around for the green-and-white stripes of House Trevelyne, but I don't see none—I don't see Pete, neither.
Uh-oh.
There's the Sheik, dancin' and prancin', but it's a groom what's leadin' him about, not Petey. I look at the Colonel and he's lookin' down at the track, too, and his mouth is set in a grim line around a cigar that is clenched tight in his jaws.
I spy the groom George working his way through the crowd toward us and I know what that means: Petey ain't gonna make it. I hope he ain't dead, 'cause I've grown fond of the little man. George leans in and says something in Colonel Trevelyne's ear and the Colonel nods curtly and bows to his party and leaves the grandstand, but before he does, he motions for Randall to follow him.
I grab Amy's arm and pull her along. "Let's go, Sister. Things are going wrong and we must do what we can."
"But what...?"
"Petey ain't gonna make the race." I turn and look at her, and her face is now empty of all hope. "Please, just go along with whatever I say, no matter what. No matter how crazy. Will you do it?"
She nods and follows me out of the box, her face ashen.
We hit the ground and race toward the jockey rooms and we meet the Colonel and Randall as they are coming out of Petey's room.
I give Amy an elbow and hiss at her, "Ask them what's the matter." as it ain't my place and I don't want to spook 'em.
"Father. What is the matter?" she says.
"Jarvis can't race. He's barely conscious," growls the Colonel. He takes his cigar and throws it to the ground. "Damn it! Damn it all to hell!"
"Can't you forfeit? Call off the bets?" asks Amy without much hope in her voice.
"I can forfeit, but I cannot call off the bets, and what, Daughter, gave you the idea that you can talk to me in this way?" His face is bright red and his tone is dangerous.
"I shall ride him, Father," says Randall, and he begins to unbutton his jacket.
"Aw, you're too damned heavy, boy, you'd surely..."
It is time, Jacky, I says to myself, and I pulls out my asafoetida bag and clutches it in me hand and I steps forward.
"Beggin' your pardon, Colonel Trevelyne, but I have here in my hand an answer to your problem." I ain't used to talking up to large powerful men, so my voice shakes a bit.
"What?" shouts the Colonel, shock and outrage on his face as he stares down at me.
I pushes on. "I have this here powerful voodoo potion that I picked up when I was sailin' on the Caribbean Sea," I says, and waves the bag decorated with its strange symbols in front of him. "It's powerful strong magic, Sir, as it was put together by Mama Boudreau, herself, a most famous hoodoo conjure woman."
"Let me see that," orders the Colonel. He reaches out a meaty paw for my bag, but I shrinks back and holds the bag tighter to my chest.
"Oh no, Sir! Don't mess with the gris-gris, Sir, it's very dangerous in unschooled hands. It's very powerful stuff and no tellin' what would happen." I shivers and looks all scared at the very thought.
"Rubbish," says he. "Has this girl ever been to the Caribbean?" he asks Amy. It looks like he is ready to grasp at straws.
"Yes," says Amy, and then, incredibly, she says, "she has often spoken of her knowledge of the mysterious arts of that region."
The Colonel squints at me. "It's powerful enough to cure someone as sick as him?"
"Sir, it was made to raise the dead. It may not cure Mr. jarvis, but it will get him up."
He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. "All right. Go get him up. And hurry."
Ah. And now for the hook.
"I have terms, Colonel Trevelyne, and you may not like them." I'm puttin' up a brave front, but I'm shakin' inside. To talk to a colonel like this...
"What! What terms, girl?"
"If I rouse up Peter Jarvis enough so he can get on the Sheik and win the race, you must swear, on your honor as an officer and gentleman, to never again bet on anything. N
ot a penny, not a pound, not a dollar, not a dime. Nothing wagered ever again."
He balls his fist and lifts it high above me. "Why, you insolent piece of baggage...!"
I cringe and hunch my shoulders, and wait for the blow, but the blow does not come.
"Father, please!" say both Amy and Randall together.
I open my eyes. The Colonel is standing there, and he is a bit shrunken, like the air has gone out of him.
I have no mercy. "Do you so swear?"
"Yes," he says, quietly. "I swear."
"All right," I say, all brisk. "Amy and Randall, I'll need your help. Randall, get everybody out of Petey's room." I cross my arms at the wrists over my chest like I'm a voodoo princess and I put my head back and slit my eyes and start into a low chant, "Hey-ya, hey-ya, hey-ya, hey!" over and over and follow them in.
We surge into Petey's tiny room and there are people in there standing around him lying there in the bed. Petey's mouth is open and his face is gray and he looks half dead. "Everybody please leave," says Randall, curtly. They look confused. "Out!" he roars this time. "Now!" And out they go, falling over each other in their haste. Randall's blood is up.
As soon as the door is shut, I say, "Randall, put your back to the door and let no one in! Amy, help me!" and I flip my hat to the floor and start to struggle out of my dress. "Randall. Turn around!"
Petey's silks are hanging on the wall with his boots beneath them. Amy has undone the buttons on the back of my dress and I flip it over my head. Off with the shoes and stockings and I pull off my slip and—"Randall, turn around!" Oh, to hell with it, there's no time! I put my thumbs in the waistband of my flouncy drawers and pull them down and step out of them. I reach for the silk pants...
"Don't ... don't let 'em..."
Petey's talking! His eyes flutter open. I dash to his side. "Don't let 'em what, Petey? Don't let 'em..."
