by L. A. Meyer
I think he is counting off on his fingers . . .
“And then there was that moray eel that attempted to end your life under the warm but dangerous waters of the Caribbean Sea. To say nothing about Professor Tilden’sDiving Bell with its own peril, nitrogen narcosis, which did bend your poor body most cruelly, almost to the point of death. That’s six, at least. Then, while on the Lorelei Lee and bound for the prison colony in New South Wales inAustralia, you did kneel beneath the razor-sharp sword of Cheng Shih, the notorious female Chinese pirate, expecting nothing more than that your head should fall to her deck. I think that’s seven, and then there was the terrible storm in the Straits of Malacca and the encounter with an earlier striped beast. That makes eight, and now the incident with the stubborn cloak makes nine.”
He pauses to let that sink in, then continues, “Do you take my point, Miss Faber?”
“That I have used up all of my nine lives, Higgins?” I sniff. “Silly superstition, as I am not a cat.”
“There are certain similarities, Miss, so I would be careful were I you, and stay away from any trouble that looks like it might lead to a noose. Better your luck stretched, rather than your neck.”
Amen to that, Higgins, and believe me, I shall be most careful.
“Very well, up with you now. Time for bed.”
Ah, yes, bed, delicious bed!
As I burrow down into the comforting covers into which Mairead has long since snuggled, my mind rejects the events of the night and turns to much warmer thoughts of one James Emerson Fletcher . . . oh, yes.
G’night, luv.
Chapter 32
Things were going well at the Montessori andMattucci Grand Circus, and I was growing quite comfortable in my new role as circus impresario. After all, I got room and board, pleasant accommodations, good company, and the adulation of the crowd. What more could I want? Yes, put me at the center of attention, wherever I am, and I shall be happy. True, I itch to get back to Boston and await Jaimy’s return, but this is all right for now. Food’s good, too.
After seeing Higgins and Mairead off with promises of joining them again in the spring, if not sooner, we have moved on from Wareham and are set up at New Bedford, Massachusetts, and I am glad of that. Even though Edgar Polk had said he would not peach on me, I feel better being some distance from Plymouth.
I have appointed Rigger O’Rourke factotum, as he seems most qualified. Furthermore, he has been told he is to take over as manager in the event of my sudden departure. I have furnished him with the checkbook and the address of Faber Shipping Worldwide, and said that I expect the circus to pay. He nods and smiles, especially when I tell him he will receive ten percent off the top for his services.
When we do head south, I will drop the Fan Dance. There are too many Bible thumpers down there, so why take a chance for another dose of tar and feathers? I had enough of that the last time I was down in the slave states, that’s for sure. I swear I’m still pulling black stuff out of my ears.
That’s not to say we don’t have our wicked fun at the old M and M. Sometimes when one of the local boys has a bit of a snootful at our bar and refuses to leave at closing time and then very inconveniently passes out blissfully on the back lot, we take up his limp form and toss him in old Balthazar’s cage. It is my firm belief that we have converted many a worthless drunk into a teetotallin’ Preacher of the Gospel overnight. I have personally seen the light of the Reborn sparkle in their rheumy eyes when they wake up in the morning and, instead of seeing pink elephants and such, find themselves in a locked cage containing a full-grown male African lion. Balthazar is kept well fed and doesn’t mind a little human company, so sometimes a miscreant wakes up with a sunburn and massive leonine arm thrown over his chest. The awakening scream doesn’t bother Balthazar a bit. He just yawns his mighty yawn, but we all get a real kick out of it.
I had been in New Bedford before, back in ’03, right after I had fled the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls in a panic, leaving it and a good deal of Boston in flames behind me. I wasn’t here for long because it was in this seagoing town that I signed on as crew on the whalerPequod to gain passage back to England. But that’s another story . . .
It is on the second day of our stay in New Bedford, during the afternoon show, when—Joy!—from my aerialist perch high above the ring, I spy none other than the uplifted faces of Ezra Pickering and my dear friend Amy Trevelyne, who are sitting below to catch the show. What a fine holiday for them, and what an excellent opportunity for me to show off.
It warms my heart to see them together, and I plan to give them a really good show, with extra thrills and chills thrown in for their benefit.
Ha! And wait till Amy catches my Famous Fan Dance! Oh, won’t that be grand? I can’t wait!
And then, my eye catches something else out of the ordinary down below, something much more ominous, something that sends a chill up my spine and causes the hair on the back of my neck to stand up in warning. Thoughts of a joyful reunion with dear friends are now completely dashed . . .
A number of men in similar black suits and hats have mixed with the crowd. Although there’s nothing remarkable in that, as most males who are not soldiers dress in somber colors these days, these men seem to have a singular concern in mind. They confer with one another, looking up at me when they do so. Uh-oh . . . And a pair of them have nonchalantly posted themselves at the exit. They are not being very subtle, which means they think they’ve got their quarry well in hand. Damn.
Marcello Grimaldi’s feet land lightly on the platform next to me, his act over, while mine is about to begin.
“Marcello, if you luff me,” I say, “you vill do some-zing for me . . .”
“Oh, I do love you, Anuschka, my little Russian pastry, as I love my own life. Just name the deed and I will do it. You wish a triple somersault? Very well, even though it has never been done before and will cost me my life, I shall attempt it gladly. Goodbye, my love. I will see you in heaven.” He takes my hand and kisses the back of it. Then he grabs the trapeze bar as it swings back to him, as if he is actually going to attempt the impossible trick.
“No foolink now, Marcello, beloved idiot,” I say, putting my hand on his arm as he takes his bows and prepares to leave the platform. “Do not look down, but do you not see zose mens in dark suits at zee entrance and at zee foot of zee tent pole? And now zere are two at zee exit.”
“Sí, mi amore, I do,” he answers, glancing out of the corner of his eye.
“Zey mean to do me great harm, Marcello,” I say. “Great harm to my person.”
“Then I shall go down and kill them, my Flower of the Steppes.”
“No, Marcello, you shall not do zat zing. Vat you mus’ do is go down and get for me a goot horse. Get zat Furio. Yes, he is goot horse, and I vant zat you should put a saddle on him and tie on my bag, which is right next to my bed, to zee back of it. Zen lead him behind zee animal cages for ven I come down. Zen you must go avay from zere, for zey must not see you helping me. It vould cause you much trouble!”
“You will go away, Tsarina? I could not stand the pain—”
“Zey vill hurt me much more zan you can imagine. Zey mean to kill me, and zen I vill be of no use to you or anyone else. Please, caro mio, you must do as I ask. Please.”
He still looks doubtful, so I take his face in mine and say, “Vun kiss, Marcello, vun kiss to remember me by.”
And I give him a kiss, full on the lips, a real kiss, something I have not yet done with him, to show him just how serious I am.
There is a quiet hum from the crowd upon viewing this unscheduled performance, but I can’t care about that now.
I take my mouth from his and say, “Go now, and goodbye. I love you, amico, very much in my vay. Addio, Marcello. Ricordati di me!”
Stunned and amazed, he turns and grasps his trapeze bar. With one last look back at me, he swings out, releases, and does his landing in the net. He bounces up, takes a very quick bow, then heads for the stage
exit. In a moment he is gone.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” roars out Ringmaster Generalissimo Pietro through his speaking trumpet. “Your attention is directed high, high up in the very center of the tent where stands, direct from the Royal Russian Circus ofMoscow, performing without a net, our very own Princess Natasha Annasova Romanoff, death-defying Queen of the High Wire!”
Hearing Ringmaster Mattucci announce my act, I strike a pose, bow to the audience, and pick up the balance bar. Then I put my foot on the wire and head out.
I get halfway over before I steal another glance below. I see that two of the suspicious men are talking to the ringmaster at the side of the center ring. They all look up at me. Maestro Pietro angrily shakes his head No! and points his finger at the entrance, plainly telling them to get the hell out of our circus. But one of the men takes out some papers and shows them to him. I do not let on that I have noticed. I serenely look out over the crowd, elegantly posed, but actually I am anything but serene.
Good God, they have found me! But how? Edgar, did you . . . ?
No time for that now. Got to get away.
I do the first few tricks and then notice that Strongman Gregor, guarding the stage entrance, has been joined by several men, also in dark suits. These men, however, wear long white riding dusters over their clothing, like they intend to ride. Prolly with my poor self bound and thrown across the saddle. Gregor shoves them back, but they do not go away.
I get to the other platform, drop my bar, lift my arm, and bow for some applause. After I get it, I pull off my skirt, drawing the usual gasp from the crowd, and head back out on the wire—and, yes, I can see Amy has buried her face in her hands. I further notice that two of the men have gone to the foot of the main tent pole to stand exactly where I will have to come down.
I do my fake fall followed by several flips, regain my feet on the wire, and walk slowly to the end. I take my final bows, and I know they are the final ones, indeed. I put my hand on the main top rope, the one I usually slide down . . .
And I begin to climb up, up toward the light at the top of the tent.
There is a hush from the crowd, thinking this must be a further part of the performance, but the men below don’t believe that. I hear cries of “Look out!” “Get her!” “She’s goin’ out the top!”
And indeed I am. This thick line extends to a pulley at the top of the tent, and is the rope that pulls the heavy canvas up. It takes twenty men and an elephant to do it, too, so the rope is as taut as a bowstring. It is easy to climb, for did I not grow up in the rigging of a very tall ship?
It takes me about thirty seconds to reach the hole in the top. Sticking my head out into the brilliant sun, I blink and look down the broad expanse of canvas lying below me.
Over on the back lot I see that Marcello has saddled up Furio, but instead of tying him up and fleeing as I told him, the lovely fool stands there holding the reins and waiting for me. Can he not see the hard-faced men on horseback who are encircling the back lot?
From below there is the sound of two pistol shots, one right after the other, and there is a poof! poof! as two round holes appear in the canvas, one on either side of me.
Damn! This sure ain’t the British Admiralty wantin’ me for some sort of questioning, or to stand trial for piracy. No, these people mean to take me either alive or stretched out dead in a wagon, and it doesn’t seem to matter to them either way!
I pull myself out of the opening, do a somersault on the stiff canvas, lift my feet, and slide down on my rump, leaving, I am sure, more than a few bright sequins in my wake. I hit the edge of the tent, vault over, and land on my feet, then run toward my waiting horse, my only slim chance of escape.
And a forlorn hope it is, I realize with sinking heart, for there, all about, are mounted men, some of them in police uniform, but all of them very plainly armed with pistol and rifle. Even as I run, I see several pull out weapons from their saddle holsters.
Oh, dear God, is it all to end right here for Jacky Faber, to be shot down like a mad dog, to be left a limp rag of flesh and bone, bleeding out her life on this dusty piece of ground?
Not yet it ain’t.
I run for Marcello and the horse, but as I sense the weapons aimed at me, I cut sharply to the right and dive under the lion’s cage, grabbing the key on my way under. I hear several shots, and dust is kicked up next to me, but they serve nothing except to startle the beast within.
Picking up the wagon tongue, which lies tucked between the wheels, I give the bottom a few sharp raps to further alert Balthazar, and then roll the rest of the way to the front of the cage, shouting, “Roar, Balthazar, roar!”
And he does, oh, yes, he does. The deep rumbling that comes out of his throat, a sound that has terrified countless creatures for millions of years, is heard by the horses upon which my tormentors sit, and they start to whinny and shy, spoiling their riders’ aim.
Then I open the cage, and mighty Balthazar, king once again of the land around him, leaps out, shakes his massive black mane, and gives out a truly magnificent roar.
All the horses shriek in terror, bucking and spilling their riders to the ground, and charging off in all directions, any direction, save the one anywhere near that awful lion. True, Balthazar has no teeth, but they do not know that.
I roll back under the cage, then quickly get up and run to Marcello and the horse he holds. Furio, being a circus horse, is familiar with Balthazar’s scent and has heard his roar many times, so he is not as skittish as the others. Well, almost not as skittish, for his eyes roll about in his head as he eyes the loose lion. I am upon his back before he can flee without me.
“Goodbye again, Marcello,” I say, the reins in my hand. “You should not have waited here, but I thank you for it anyway. Fare thee well, compadre.”
“Circus people watch out for their own,” he says simply, tears welling up in his big brown eyes, as well as in mine. “Addio, Tsarina. Ti amo moltissima.”
He gives Furio a slap on his rump as I dig in my heels, and I am gone, leaping the back-lot rope and once again pounding across the American countryside . . .
. . . And I swear I hear, above all the tumult, AmyTrevelyne’s voice crying out, “Oh, Jacky, no!” as she has so many times before.
Chapter 33
I know they’re back there somewhere, probably only a half hour behind—that’s how long I figure it would’ve taken them to recover their horses after Balthazar had spooked them. I hope they didn’t hurt the poor old thing in getting him back into his cage. I didn’t hear any gunshots, so maybe they didn’t. I know I am so very hard on my friends, and I wish I were otherwise, but seldom am.
Luckily, I have not yet encountered anyone on this road, anyone who might think it strange that a young girl would be galloping along a country road wearing only a very small corset, white stockings, and ballet shoes. So far, so good.
Furio is a game horse and he pounds bravely on, but he is beginning to froth and sweat, so I must slow down to a walk for a bit, to give him a breather. Trouble is, the land around here is mostly open farmland and I have scant places to hide. My only hope is to outpace them till I can get to the sea, where I can buy or steal a small boat and so get away. The sea has always been my salvation, and I know it is only about twenty miles to the south of me.
It’s so close, I can smell it.
I reach the top of a high hill and dismount, to let Furio graze and rest for a bit while I go into my seabag and pull out my long glass. There is a large boulder by the side of the road, and I climb up on it and put the glass to my eyes to look down on the road behind me. I am cheered when I see nothing . . . But, wait . . . Is that a cloud of dust behind that far hill? I squint and hope that it is not, but no, it is them.
Damn!
I jam the spyglass back in my bag and take up the reins again.
“C’mon, Furio, let’s go!” I swing up on him and away we gallop. If I can just make it to the sea!
But we do not gallop for lon
g. In a few minutes, I notice the horse’s gait change. In another moment, I realize he is favoring his left rear leg. In yet another minute, he whinnies and pulls up lame.
I leap off him, then pull up his hoof, and see disaster written there. He has thrown a shoe. The nails have worked loose and the horseshoe barely clings to his bloody foot. It must be paining him awfully.
I look about me and see a small farm down the side of the hill to the left. I dive back into my bag to dig out my shiv, which I use to pry the shoe all the way off his foot. I fling the now useless piece of iron into the high grass next to the road, then strip the saddle and my seabag from the poor horse’s back. I carry the saddle a few yards into the bushes and hide it. Going back to Furio, I tie the reins behind his neck and point his head at the barn down below.
“Go, Furio! Down there! They’ll take care of you! Go!”
Then I give him the biggest hand swat on his hindquarters that I can, and he grunts and starts limping down toward the farm, where I am sure he smells oats and warm hay and others of his kind. And won’t that farmer be delighted to find a prime, ownerless horse in his barnyard?
Enough of happy farmers, you. They’re right behind you and you’ve got to move on!
I pick up my seabag, throw it over my shoulder, and head across a field to the right. I see there is a fringe of forest up there and it may be the beginning of yet a bigger growth of trees. If I can make that, and there proves to be deeper woods beyond, then I should be all right, for they will not be able to follow me on horseback through dense forest.
To think I’m prolly only about thirty miles from dear old Dovecote right now, forty-five from Boston and the Pig and the Lawson Peabody, and from Amy and Ezra andClementine and Jim and Rebecca and Randall and all the people I love in this world and those who love me and . . . Stop that, you! Stop your crying—it won’t do you any good! Push on, push on!
