The Mark of the Golden Dragon: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Jewel of the East, Vexation of the West, and Pearl of the South China Sea

by Louis A. Meyer

  "Shukriya, larka." Then he adds in English, "Where do you come from?"

  Ravi, a bit startled upon hearing a bit of Urdu spoken, answers, "From Bombay, Sahib All-en wallah."

  I had forgotten that Lord Allen had served in India.

  "So where did you get the little wog?" asks Richard of me.

  "In India ... Bombay, Mr. Allen," I reply, slightly huffily. "His name is not 'wog' but rather Ravi, which means 'Sun,' which suits him. He has proven most valuable to me and I love him very much."

  "Oh, do get down from your high horse, Princess, as it does not suit you," he says, ruffling Ravi's black locks. "He seems a fine fellow to me, and if you like him, so will I. Now, I believe it is time we are off to the Cockpit."

  Our coach draws up to the entrance of the place and I am handed out by a footman. I place my hand on Richard's arm and allow myself to be led in. Covering all my Oriental gear, I wear a light cloak and hood, as my escort thought it best that I save some of the surprise for later, and I agree. After all, one must think about timing in any theatrical enterprise.

  We go in, and my senses are immediately assaulted by the tobacco fumes that lie in dense layers all about the place. In what's left of the air that exists in the room, there is the smell, too, of perfume and liquor, along with beer and ale, as well as sweat and clothes that need a bit of cleansing. The lighting is mostly from candles placed in front of enclosed booths wherein clusters of people huddle and laugh and raise toasts together in what appears to be great conviviality.

  Richard leads me through the throng.

  "Lord Allen, by God, come and have a drink with us!" "Over here!" And Allen is gracious, bowing and saluting, and bringing his fingers to his brow in recognition of the kind invites. "Come, Allen, show us that bit of fluff that decorates your arm!" "That Allen, I swear, always with a new one!" "Here, over here!"

  He pushes on, with me clinging to his arm, toward the murky depths at the back of the place.

  "Yes, Princess, it would be fun to stop to lift a few with them, and it would be entertaining, as many of them are fine fellows, but we are hunting much bigger game this night. Ah, here we are..."

  We are guided to an empty booth and we slide into it, me gathering all my layers of cloth about me.

  A girl comes up and Allen orders, "Claret, two glasses—no, four glasses—and oysters, lots of them. A plate of roast beef, too ... Yes, and some cheese, a basket of bread, also ... and whatever else you've got that's good, bring it on!"

  The girl smiles, lets her eyes travel over him ... then me ... and says, "Yes, milord, right away."

  The food and drink are brought and I settle into Richard Allen's side, content for the moment.

  There is someone far off playing a fiddle and a woman is singing, and I reflect, uncharitably, that I could do both much better, but let that go. The oysters are awfully good, and I lift one to my mouth to let it slide down, and then I hold one over Richard's open mouth and, laughing, let that one slide down there, and then—

  "Steady down, Princess," says Richard. "Our quarry has arrived."

  I look over the room and see a very well-dressed man coming through the crowd, receiving invitations and salutations. He seems about to sit with one group when Richard says, "Jacky. Drop the hood ... now."

  I do it, letting the whole outer cloak slip from my shoulders.

  The man in question notices...

  "Good ... good," says Allen.

  "Who is he?" I whisper, mystified.

  "He is the Duke of Clarence, and the woman on his arm is the famous actress Mrs. Jordan."

  The man wears a naval uniform, and the woman—a very beautiful woman—is finely dressed with a many plumed hat upon her head.

  The pair is about to sit down with those who had hailed them when the man notices me preening on Richard's arm. He murmurs apologies to that group and makes his way toward us.

  "Good," says Richard. "We have him."

  "But who is he?" asks the stupid me.

  "He is the King's youngest son, William Henry. He is third in line for the throne and does not have much chance of gaining the crown, but—"

  What? The King's own son?

  I sit up and thrust out my chest as the pair approaches.

  "Uh ... a little more subtle, Miss," says Richard. "Play it a little more ... mysterious..."

  I take the advice to heart, settle back, and wait.

  The Duke of Clarence comes to our table and Lord Allen stands up and says, "Milord William Henry, so good to see you. And Mrs. Jordan, may I say how much I enjoyed your performance as Hippolyta ... absolutely stunning."

  The woman accepts the compliment, but I can see that she is used to that sort of thing and is not at all won over.

  "Will you sit and have a glass with us?" asks Richard. "My companion has a proposition that might be of interest to you ... or to your family."

  The Duke flips out his tails and plunks himself down next to me, while Mrs. Jordan seats herself next to Richard, with whom she seems to be quite familiar. She takes a plump oyster, opens her mouth, and drops it down her neck. Hmmm. Wine is poured and idle chatter is the order of the evening.

  "So what is this, Allen?" asks the Duke, referring to me. "Quite exotic, I must say," he says, gazing at my hair with its ivory pins.

  "You don't know the half of it, milord," says Richard. "She is the Lady Ju kau-jing yi, of the House of Chen, and she comes from the East with a proposition that I believe will benefit both the British Museum and the British people."

  I place my fingertips together and bow my head in acknowledgment of the introduction and then Richard gives him a brief description of the proposal ... and the treasure.

  "Remarkable," says Lord Clarence. "If it is true, Father will be very interested. He does love his museum so ... But are you sure? She seems to be but a child..."

  I decide to attack from the left, where sits Mrs. Jordan, rather than the right. I will get to him later.

  I rise enough to let the cloak slip completely off, revealing me in my silken sarong. There are several nearby gasps, which I find somewhat gratifying.

  Then I reach up my forearm where rests my shiv, and pull out the necklace I had taken earlier from the stash and had placed there for just this eventuality. I hold it up to Mrs. Jordan.

  Her eyes light up at the sight of the string of perfect pearls.

  "My patron in Rangoon wished me to give these to you, as stories of your beauty have extended that far. If you would, my lord," I murmur, in heavily accented English, handing the pearls to the Duke.

  He gets up and places the necklace upon the neck of his paramour. It looks good there, and both seem very pleased.

  To top it off, I slip the wig from my head, exposing both shaven head and Golden Dragon tattoo.

  Many mouths go agape.

  "I hope your mistress likes the pearls," I purr. "I dove down for them myself."

  Richard leans into me and whispers in my ear, "I know you are lying about that, Princess, but I do believe you have done yourself some good here. Tomorrow, you shall be famous."

  The Dragon Girl hoods her eyes and nods.

  I am already famous, Richard, my dear dragoon, but we shall see what comes of this...

  Chapter 32

  Early in the wee hours of the morning, after a riotous night at the Cockpit, which got even more riotous as the night went on, I was escorted back to my ship.

  Yes, there had been some tabletop dancing involved—with me bare of midriff, pigtail flying, finger cymbals chiming on my fingertips, and singing songs I had learned from Ravi and Sidrah. And all the while I was slithering and swaying, approximating the sinuous moves I had seen on dancers in Siam. I must say I was a hit. The Duke of Clarence was greatly amused, and I was told that I have been promised to him the instant Lord Allen tires of me. "You will never tire of me, Lord Dick," I pronounced grandly from my perch on Richard's lap, as I put yet another pink shrimp to his lips. "I promise you that!"

  Oh, yes,
the Cockpit is Jacky Faber's kind of place, that's for sure.

  A quick kiss for my Lord Richard in the coach, and I made my way back to my cabin. I did not invite him down into my den. No, I did not. I still had sense enough to realize that, though I trust him to be a gentleman—and he has certainly proven that in the past—I did not entirely trust myself, especially in my current state of ... excitement. Oh, it was a glorious night! And Richard is so beautiful, all red-coated and fine, such a gallant ... enough of that, you. You're supposed to be saving Jaimy Fletcher from himself ... and from an eventual noose. Steady down, girl.

  A bit later, as I was preparing for bed and dressed in my nightshirt, I heard Davy and Tink come roaring back aboard.

  Come all ye brave fellows that follow the sea,

  To me, way hey, blow the man down!

  Now please pay attention and listen to me,

  Give me some time to blow the man down!

  Aye, that's me lads all right. Best send Ravi off for some coffee before they bring the night watchman down upon us.

  'Tis larboard and starboard, on deck you'll repine,

  To me, way hey, blow the girl down!

  For it's little Jack Faber on the Blue Anchor Line,

  Give me some time to blow the girl down!

  Hmmm. Davy does like messin' with the lyrics—anything for a dig at me. Some things never change. He just can't get over the fact that I run the show. Well, suck it up, boyo...

  They come tumbling aboard and I quiet them and hurry them below. Soon there is coffee, and cakes, and they subside. Higgins, also, chooses this time to return, and he comes into my cabin and lays hat and stick aside and waits to report.

  "So, lads, what did you find?"

  "Well, Jacky, it is plain that it is our Jaimy, no doubt about that," says Davy. "And, to be sure, his fame is growing. There are songs being made up, poems, too. Some are quite good. You could think about adding them to your act, Jack-O... 'Oh, the Highwayman comes riding, with his pistols held on high, 'Give me Harry Flashby!' he cries, And the Highwayman shall ride no more!'"

  "He always had a quick temper," says Tink. "And Bliffil certainly was no friend of ours. Bad cess to him, I say, wherever he might be."

  Bliffil had been the bull midshipman on the Dolphin and had made every effort to make sure the lives of the junior midshipmen and us ship's boys were as miserable as possible.

  Higgins speaks up.

  "It is true, the legend of the Black Highwayman is growing beyond his little spat with Bliffil and Flashby. You look disbelieving, Miss, but it is a fact. The romantic press has picked up the story. Give them a good man who is wronged by base and evil men, throw in swirling black capes, rearing black stallions against a full moon on the purple moor, and you've got an avid audience."

  "Oh, dear," I say, fearful. "But how can he evade capture?"

  "There are many inns on Blackheath Road that cater to the highwayman class. And he has the poor people with him for he robs only the fat merchants and never anyone in want. He laughs as he robs the rich ones, and it is supposed to be a harrowing sound, but he is always courteous to the ladies, and though they faint at the sight of him, he manages to put their trembling minds at ease."

  "And Flashby?" I ask.

  "He has gone deep under cover and has not been heard of for a while. Dr. Sebastian hears that Flashby has doubled his bodyguards but still fears to venture out from where he is hiding."

  "Serves the bastard right," I say. "I wish him troubled sleep."

  "The Highwayman has not been active for a while," continues Higgins. "I surmise that he is still recovering from the wound inflicted by the cowardly Bliffil. But he must be staying somewhere. He cannot be sleeping out in the spring rains. Someone knows where he is."

  "I was talkin' to this one girl," says Tink. "She says she thinks the Highwayman stops by real regular at an inn called The Blackthorn. It's midway up the Blackheath Road. And a girl there, the landlord's daughter, just might know his whereabouts. Her name is Bess."

  Hmmmm...

  "Do you think that Jaimy has gone off his mind?"

  The door opens and the black-clad Joannie walks in. She places the five safe passage tokens on the table and then sits down cross-legged on the floor, saying nothing.

  "Well, do you?"

  "He certainly ain't been actin' real sane," says Davy. Tink nods at that, and, reluctantly, so does Higgins.

  So that is it. I stand and say, "I fear that James Fletcher has, indeed, gone mad. It tears my heart out to say that, but I know it can happen to the best of us. My own poor self had to struggle to hold the tatters of my mind together after Trafalgar, and so it must be with Jaimy. And the good Lord knows I've done my part to contribute to that lunacy. But if he has really lost his sanity, I pledge that I will take care of him to the best of my ability and I will bring him back into the world of reason. But for me to do that, he must not be caught and hanged as a common footpad. We have got to get Jaimy out of England and to a safe place where he might rest and return to us."

  Tears are trickling down my cheeks as I wring my hands and ask, "Are you with me?"

  Nods all around.

  "The Brotherhood Forever," say Davy and Tink in unison, and I echo the pledge, hand on hip.

  The Brotherhood Forever...

  Chapter 33

  It doesn't take much for Liam Delaney to look rough—just a watch cap crammed down low on his head, leather trousers, open shirt, and heavy boots. Tink, too, will be going along today, and he is dressed a little more foppish. We're trying for a dissolute young man look for him. Me? I'm dressed as slutty as I can make it, and I can make it pretty slutty, believe me, as I have had practice. I have on my low-cut blue dress, the one I'd sewn for myself back on the Dolphin in imitation of a frock I had seen on a Mrs. Roundtree, practitioner of the World's Oldest Profession. Hey, what did I know? I was just a kid! I top off my outfit with my outrageous red wig and my black lace mantilla thrown over my bare shoulders, for modesty, don'cha know. I slather too much rouge on my cheeks and lots and lots of white powder on my chest. Higgins shudders as the preparations are made, but we get it done.

  At last we are ready and head out onto the pier. Higgins, impeccably dressed as always, of course, in gray suit and cloak, climbs into a hackney cab to go to meet again with Mr. Peel, my old controller at Naval Intelligence, to see how things lie in that direction, while Joannie Nichols bounds across Upper Thames Street toward Paternoster and the den of the Shankies, of which gang she is now a full-fledged member. "Me a Shanky! Can you believe it?" she exclaims. Her mission: to use the underworld gang network to find out where the frightened fox Lieutenant Harry Flashby has gone to ground, giving, as I see it, the brave and noble foxes a bad name.

  Liam, Tink, and I get into a coach-and-four and clatter over Blackfriars Bridge and on to the moorlands south of London.

  Coming off the bridge we make our way down Blackfriars Road to London Road, thence onto the Kent Road and then New Cross Road and on and on. The city has been steadily thinning out, turning into pastureland and meadow, with some sections of woods.

  As we clatter along, I think grumpily how much I would prefer a good horse under me, rather than this stuffy, rattling, jarring coach, but the plan must be served. I amuse myself in teasing Tink about Concepcion Mendoza, the Havana innkeeper's daughter he had met on our treasure hunting voyage last year. It seems the Nancy B. had made other trips to Cuba on the rum-molasses-granite trade, after my departure, and Tink had revisited her each time.

  "Huh!" I say, all contemptuous. "If I'd been along, you'd be married to Ric's daughter by now, and happy as any clam, with your head now resting on Concepcion's ample bosom, her belly big with child."

  "Aye, now wouldn't that be sweet, instead of bein' shaken half to death on a cold, drafty day on the moors of England, chasing a phantom?"

  "Well, when we get Jaimy back and safe, I'll do what I can to make it happen, and I do have my ways."

  If we get Jaimy back...<
br />
  Then I turn to Liam and start reminiscing with him about when the Lorelei Lee had met up with the Nancy B. Alsop in Rangoon, and his reunion with his daughter, my very good friend Mairead Delaney McConnaughey...

  "Yeah, so I stuck my finger in the young rascal's face and said, Tan McConnaughey, you low-livin poltroon, ye got me daughter in a pack o' trouble, and I blame ye for it. So now ye'd better be takin her over to America where she'll be safe, and if I ever have to come after the pair o' ye again, it's her I'll be savin' and you I'll be drowndin'! Do ye take my meaning?'"

  Apparently, Ian took his meaning and debarked on the Lee with his wife, bound for America ... or Amer-i-kay, as the Irish would have it.

  "Do not worry about her, Father, as she and I have many friends there and she will be well cared for," I reassure him, my hand on his arm. "And Ian is a very good man."

  Liam Delaney responds with a grunt. "Good man? Right. I have to chase halfway around the world, through heathen seas, to get her back ... You, too."

  We turn, finally, onto Blackheath Road, and the landscape changes. We are definitely in the moors. The earth itself is black, and the few and solitary trees are stark against the gray sky.

  "It was my fault, Father," I say, snuggling into his side, looking out into the bleak surroundings and taking comfort from his solid presence. "Not Ian's."

  "Aye," he responds with a short laugh. "But we forgive the lasses, don't we? But not the lads who should know better and take better care of their girls ... and in this case, my girls."

  "Ah, Liam, there's more o' it than that ... and, oh! There's an inn up ahead! Let us stop and see what we can learn."

  "Driver! Stop!"

  We do, indeed, pull to a stop and get out. We go in, take welcome refreshment, and learn nothing. We press on.

  The landscape grows darker and ever more gloomy. It starts to rain, a dismal, relentless downpour. We pass a pair of gateposts whereon is inscribed the name "Bask ... Basker ... ville..." or something. Whether it is a town name or the title of an estate, I do not know, but it is all very much lacking in cheer. From far off across the moor, a hound howls, low and mournful. Ahooooooo ... Ahoooooo... I give a shiver and snug down even further twixt my friends. The road is now a glistening ribbon of highway in the gloom.