by L. A. Meyer
I compose myself and say, “Come in.”
The door opens and he stands before me. At last . . .
Oh, Jaimy, over the years, I had waited so long for a moment like this . . . When I was tossed into the Lawson Peabody and you were taken so far away from me, and then when I was trapped on the Bloodhound, and all of those other times when we were worlds apart. Yet now you stand before me, oh so smart in your fine lieutenant’s jacket of blue, with those cold gray-blue eyes drilling straight into mine. But NO! Not into my heart, for I shall not allow it. Know, Jaimy, that though you now stand before me, you are farther away from me than ever before.
He gives a short bow, but I do not rise, saying only, “Mr. Fletcher,” in my coldest voice. “You wished to see me?”
“Jacky, I—”
“Forgive the formality, Mr. Fletcher, but unless you are one of my close friends, which you are not, I prefer to be called Miss Faber. What is it you wish to discuss?”
He takes a deep breath and then answers, rather testily, “Miss Faber. I had hoped that by our meeting, we might possibly effect a reconciliation of the differences that have risen between us.”
“Fancy talk, Mr. Fletcher,” I retort. “Seeing as how the last time I had the pleasure of your company, I was forced to my knees and tied to the courthouse stake, my back bared, whereupon you inflicted on that poor back twelve lashes of your rod. The spectacle was well received by the mob, as I recall. Then when that particular nasty job was done, I was freed of my bonds in time for me to run down to the harbor only to see you sail off with Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe wrapped around you. You did not seem to mind her presence. I trust you and she had an enjoyable voyage.”
“Ezra Pickering, Randall Trevelyne, and I all agreed that the proceeding at the courthouse was the best way out of that rather . . . tenuous situation. As for Miss Howe . . .”
“Pity I was not consulted concerning that beating, considering it was my body that was to suffer. As for Clarissa Howe, you can do what you want with her, as it is no concern to me. I have a business to run, so if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“I attempted to lay on the blows gently, consistent with pleasing the court and the crowd as to the severity of the beating.”
“The last lash wasn’t all that gentle. It really hurt.”
“For that I am sorry. My temper got the best of me. You see, I had seen that painting of you, and when you did not respond to the letter I had written you, suggesting we discuss matters that had come between us . . .”
“Ah, yes, the letter Clarissa so cunningly intercepted. Yes, she wrote me a letter of her own, from New Orleans, relating with great glee how she had pulled off that little trick. I was most amused,” I say scornfully. “So you were displeased with me because of that painting and then you sat down and wrote me a nice letter,” I say, my voice still dripping with contempt. “How very like you, Jaimy, to do things that way. Do you know that most gentlemen of my acquaintance would have simply grabbed me by the throat and put me up against a wall and demanded an explanation? Why didn’t you do that, Jaimy? I would have gladly given you one, and either you would have accepted it or not and we could have gotten on with our lives, together or apart.”
His lips are pursed tight, and he grows more and more red in the face as I continue.
“But you did not do that. Instead you donned a silly disguise and crept around as a hunchback. Why, Jaimy?”
“I . . . I had to know . . .”
Well steamed now, I get to my feet and say, “Had to know what, Jaimy? Had to know if Jacky Faber was still pure enough for James Emerson Fletcher to enter her chamber? That’s it, isn’t it?”
“I just—”
I don’t let him answer. “You know what, Jaimy? I’m not going to tell you whether I am yet a maiden or not. And what’s more, I’m never going to tell you. You and your demon will just have to live with that. I’m the same girl either way, but you will not understand that, will you?”
“But that picture—how can you . . .”
“Ah, that painting. Did you know Clarissa stole that particular piece of art and it now hangs over the bar at the House of the Rising Sun, where it is seen by hundreds of people every day? Did you know that, Jaimy? I can see by the expression on your face you did not know. And you know what else? I am glad of that, and I wish everyone who gazes upon it a measure of joy.”
“I sent that unfortunate letter as a gesture of the lingering love that I, after all is said and done, still hold for you,” he says. “Perhaps I should have been more direct in expressing my emotions. I am sorry I am not as direct as other of your male . . . friends.”
“Love? If you love me, Jaimy, you certainly have a strange way of showing it.” I snort. “First, you go and leave me all alone in America after I was kicked off the Dolphin; then you aim the Wolverine’s cannons and sink my lovely Emerald; then you run off and abandon me in the American wilderness at the mercy of Mike Fink, savage Indians, and slave hunters; then you almost break my jaw with your fist on Blackheath Road, while you’re charging crazily about being the fine Black Highwayman; and, finally, you lay your stick upon my back and bottom here in Boston, causing me great pain and mortification. Strange way of showing your love, indeed. I do not know if I can survive much more of that so-called love.”
“You know, when you are thinking straight, Jacky,” he says, his face growing more and more red above his tight collar, “which I know is damned seldom the case with you, you’d realize that all those instances were occasioned by the force of circumstance.”
“Circumstances that seem to occur with alarming regularity,” I say, my gaze unyielding in the face of his logic. Both our voices are increasing in volume.
“Come on, Jacky, what am I supposed to think? Nude paintings, lurid stories, your dalliances with various males laid out in penny-dreadful novels for all to see?”
“My dalliances?” I say, incredulous. That does it. I round the table and poke my finger in his chest and say, “Clementine Jukes.”
He jerks a bit, then pokes his own stiff finger on my breastbone. “Lord Richard Allen.”
“Bess, the landlord’s daughter.”
“Robin Raeburne.” Another poke. “Randall Trevelyne.”
“Sidrah.”
“Joseph Jared.”
I’m running out of young girls to fling at him, but he sure ain’t runnin’ out of young men.
“Arthur McBride. Jean-Paul de Valdon.”
“Mai Ling!” I counter, grasping at straws. “Mai Jing!”
“Come on, Jacky, you can do better than that! Amadeo Romero!”
I am out of retorts and can only stand fuming. Seeing me bested, he reaches out and takes me by my shaking shoulders. Yes, I am beginning to cry.
“Take your hands off me, Jaimy!” I warn, my eyes streaming and my voice shaking. “I mean it!”
“You said that I should have put you up against a wall,” he says, pushing me back against the wall next to my bed. “You mean like this?”
With that, he reaches around and grabs the hair on the back of my neck and holds it fast, putting his lips on my now open mouth.
He pulls back and says, “Is that how you like it, Jacky? Rough? Fine. Here’s another. Is it rough enough for you?”
And again he brings his face to mine and Oh, Jaimy . . . how I waited . . . No . . . No . . . Control yourself, girl, you can’t fall into this again . . .
I lift my hands and place my palms on his chest and push him away, my own breast heaving.
“No, Jaimy,” I whisper. “I like it gentle . . . sweet and gentle like you have always been . . . but I need time . . . time to think . . . about things . . . about us . . . Can you imagine the shock I felt when I pulled into port and found you suddenly here, after all that has happened? Can you imagine that? I have put you out of my mind and out of my heart . . . No . . . I need some time . . .”
“Time?” he says, reaching out and lifting my chin. “Time is what we have plenty of,
right now.” He comes in for a much gentler kiss. I . . . I let it come, but alas, he is wrong . . . Time is exactly what we do not have—not now, not ever, for I hear the cry of “Jacky! Jacky! There’s trouble!” coming from the street.
I look at Jaimy, shocked. Christ! What now? We both go to the window and see Chloe Cantrell come running up the street, her long legs pumping for all she is worth. We catch but a glimpse of her as she disappears below and into the Pig. Her feet are instantly heard pounding up the stairs to my room.
She bursts into my room without knocking, her hair flying about her face.
“Jacky! Ezra says you’ve got to run!” She gasps, breathless. “That diplomatic pouch was a trap! There are incriminating papers in it! You’re gonna be arrested for treason by the federal authorities! They’ve got warrants! Run!”
Jaimy rushes to the window and looks out.
“Damn! She’s right! Here they come!” he shouts, clenching his fists in anger and frustration. “Go, Jacky, out the back! Meet me in the wardroom of the Shannon. I don’t care who they are, they would not dare to force their way onto a British warship!”
Saying that, he whips out his sword and goes to the door. “I’ll hold the blackguards off, by God! I’ll make ’em eat every goddamned word of their warrant before they lay a hand on you! Go!” And he is gone down the stairs.
I think upon the wisdom of Jacky Faber climbing back aboard a British man-of-war for only a split second, then head out the back with my seabag on my shoulder, and I am gone into the back alleys of Boston.
Chapter 4
So I’m pounding down the alley behind the Pig—luckily the federals didn’t know that Jacky Faber always has a back way out, by God—and head for Codman’s Wharf as fast as I can. Damn! The U.S. authorities are after me now! What next? Zulu warriors? Russian Cossacks?
It doesn’t take me long to realize I ain’t makin’ very good time in this rig I’m wearing—the skirt is too long. The Lawson Peabody dress, which I have always been proud to have on my back, is more suited for gentle tea parties and concert recitals than runnin’ down side streets, evading ardent pursuers. I’ve hiked up the black skirt to my waist, to free my pumping legs, but it still won’t serve. It’s all much too conspicuous—a young girl running through the streets of blue-nosed Boston with her skirts hiked up, showing off her white petticoats and knickers. Nay, it will not serve.
Ha! There’s a barn up ahead, with its door swinging open. I run to it and look inside. Good, it’s empty. The cowherd must have taken his beasts up to the Common to graze. No tellin’ when he’ll be back, though, so I must hurry.
I toss my seabag on a bench and tear it open. Reaching in, I pull out the old sailor togs I had made for myself back on the Dolphin—loose white duck trousers and middy top with back flap. So, off with the black dress, long drawers, petticoats, white blouse, and chemise, and on with my simple seaman gear. One good thing about not growing much is that my old clothes still fit—sort of. These pants are a bit tight. I fold the school dress and tuck it into the bag. My shoes, too, as I run better when I am barefoot.
Spying the floppy cap I had long ago made with HMS Dolphin stitched on the headband, I pull it out and cram it on my head, stuffing my hair up inside.
Seabag back on shoulder, I head back out, confront a herd of puzzled cows returning from pasture, then dart off to the side and continue running down to Codman’s Wharf, where lies my little fleet of ships.
Arriving there, I see that the Morning Star is still out on the bay, fishing and pulling traps, so I pound down the pier and toss my bag onto the Evening Star, then follow it on myself. I’d rather have the Morning Star if I have to make yet another run for my life—because of the comfy little cabin—but the lesser Star will serve. Though a scant fourteen feet long, constructed by Jim Tanner, she has a watertight little cowling up forward, big enough to hold my seabag and my curled-up self if it ever comes to a real downpour . . . and it does, indeed, look like rain.
I pull up the gaff-rigged sail, tighten the downhaul, toss off the lines, put hand on tiller, and pull away from the dock.
As I go, I pass the Nancy B. Alsop, tied up, with Finn McGee onboard as petty officer of the watch.
“You ain’t seen me, Smasher!” I call out as I pass the Nancy’s port side. “Got it?”
He raises his knuckle to his brow, smiling and shaking his head ruefully, as he has been with me a long time and knows me and my ways very well. “Got it, Skipper. You take care, now.”
Rounding the end of the pier, I spy the mighty HMS Shannon, lying starboard side to Long Wharf. To my old military self, she is a glorious sight—a three-masted, thirty-eight-gun frigate, very similar to my dear old Dolphin, all neat and shipshape, sails furled and ready, flags flying—but I am done with all that now, being only an honest, peaceful, merchant seaman who wants nothing to do with war or warships, having seen enough awful carnage in that regard.
I see that the Shannon’s gangway seems to have rather more men clustered about it than usual—probably waiting for me to come prancing aboard. Well, if that’s what they’re waiting for, it ain’t gonna happen. No way I’m placing myself in the not-too-gentle custody of the Royal British Navy yet again.
Instead, I point the Star’s nose to the north and sail across the Shannon’s bow, coming up on her outboard, starboard side, where no one seems to be watching, and . . . yes . . . there is a line dangling over the side—probably left over from a work party painting the hull. All shipshape, two-blocked, and Bristol fashion, lads? I think not, but thanks, anyway.
I steer for the line, tie up, then climb the very handy rope. When I reach the rail, I peek over the side and see that, indeed, all on the quarterdeck are looking over the starboard side, no doubt waiting for the arrival of one Lieutenant J. M. Faber. I wonder if she would be piped aboard with all honors . . . Somehow, I doubt it.
Seeing their inattention, I put a leg over the rail, pull myself over, and pad toward the open hatchway that I know will lead down to the gun deck. I get here unobserved and head below.
Sure enough, the officers’ mess deck contains one long table with chairs pulled up, and officers’ staterooms arrayed to either side. Very much like the Dolphin, the Dauntless, and, yes, even my doomed Emerald and my lovely Lorelei Lee. I go to make myself comfortable, when I notice I am not alone in this room—at the end of the table, under an open window to let in light and air, sits a small midshipman. In front of him are arrayed a book, a set of dividers, a chalk slate, and a chart.
He looks up, slightly perplexed at the interruption. I am dressed as a common seaman, after all.
“I say, my good fellow, if you are not here on a work detail, I must point out that this is an officers-only space,” he says, not unkindly.
I ignore his words and go over and plunk down beside him.
“Don’t worry yourself, lad,” I say, “for I, too, am an officer in His Britannic Majesty’s Royal Navy, sometimes willingly, most times not. I am Lieutenant Jacky Faber, and you are . . . ?”
His mouth drops open.
“M-Midshipman Peter Rees, Mum, at your service,” he says, swallowing hard. It is plain my fame has once again preceded me.
“Well, good, Mr. Rees. I am glad to know you. Do you think you could order us up some food? I believe I am going to shortly be in need of some sustenance.”
Unable to speak, he reaches behind him and pulls on a cord that hangs by the bulkhead. Presently, a white-coated steward appears. No, it is not the despicable Weasel—although nothing would surprise me anymore—but rather a pleasant-looking man of possibly Spanish origin . . . perhaps a Filipino.
“Ah . . . yes . . . Paraiso. Please bring a plate of food for our . . . guest here,” the lad manages to say. I would place his age at about fourteen. Good cheekbones and jaw, fine brow. Some lord’s son, I’ll wager.
“And two glasses of wine. I believe Mr. Rees will take a drink with me.” The lad nods eagerly as Paraiso bows and exits.
I l
ook over at his work. “Studying your navigation, lad? Well, good. It will hold you in good stead, and maybe you won’t run aground in the future. But look here . . .”
The chart turns out to be of New England waters, with an insert detailing Boston Harbor.
I point a stiff forefinger down on a line of symbols in a narrow part of the channel. “See that? These are my home waters, and I know them quite well, and that damned nun buoy right there has come adrift at least fifty times to my knowledge, so watch for it when the ship leaves. Some say it is patriotic American mermaids who pull up its anchor, hoping to lure British ships to the rocks on the other side of the channel, but I dunno . . . Ah, here’s Paraiso with a lovely tray.”
The steward places a plate in front of me, then a glass of red wine before each of us, and though the food looks wondrous good, I do not stick the Faber nose in it right away but instead raise my glass to my companion.
“Rule, Britannia! May she ever rule the waves.”
“In-indeed.” He gulps, downing about half his glass.
Then I tuck into the food—meat, cheese, sticky rice, and fresh bread, and all very good—while at the same time pointing out nautical points of interest on the chart. Presently, I hear a commotion at the door.
Ah, that must be Jaimy and Ezra. I have an evil urge to hop into Midshipman Rees’s lap and give him a bit of a nuzzle as they enter—that’d settle Mr. Fletcher’s jealousy issues right quick—but I don’t. Instead I once again lift my glass to the bemused middy . . .
“To all pretty young midshipmen in the world,” I say, putting my glass to his. “May their numbers increase.”
“Goddammit, Ezra, I don’t know where the hell she . . .” Jaimy is saying as he comes into the room and spies me at the table, sharing a toast with a handsome young midshipman.
“. . . is,” he finishes, with a scowl at me and my companion, who, of course, has shot to his feet, at the same time blushing mightily.
“Mr. Fletcher . . . Ezra . . . Come in,” I say, by way of greeting, “and Higgins, too. How good of you to come. Here, seat yourselves and take some refreshment, and then we shall discuss our latest problem. Paraiso, a bottle of your best claret and three more glasses, please.”
