Wild Rover No More

by L. A. Meyer

  “The next and final charge being brought against the defendant, Jacky Mary Faber, is one of high treason against the people of the United States of America,” intones Judge Thwackham, bestowing upon me a satisfied smile from his high perch. He fairly licks his ample chops. “Mr. Belcher, you may commence your case.”

  Attorney Belcher fairly leaps to his feet in anticipation. I know what he is thinking, A capital crime! How this will enhance my résumé! What joy! When she swings, a judgeship for sure!

  He bounds to a table set up before Thwackham’s elevated bench and says, “Your Honor, the Government offers this pouch as evidence and requests that it be marked Exhibit A.”

  “Very well. Explain.”

  “It is a so-called diplomatic pouch that was taken from the defendant’s schooner, the Nancy B. Alsop, in Boston Harbor on August twentieth of this year.”

  “Is it a true diplomatic pouch?”

  “No, Your Honor, it is not. It is a facsimile and was crudely sealed with a fraudulent wax stamp.”

  “Did the Defendant sign for that pouch?”

  “Yessir, right there on the manifest list on the outside. Her signature, authenticated.”

  “What does it contain?”

  The Prosecutor reaches into the pouch and pulls out some papers and says, “I enter into evidence Exhibit B, a letter written on official Royal Navy stationery, addressed to the Defendant.”

  “Very well, so entered. Please read it and then hand it up to me.”

  Belcher clears his throat, then reads:

  Office of the Admiralty

  Naval Intelligence

  British Royal Navy

  Admiralty Court

  London, England

  To:

  Agent J. M. Faber

  Faber Shipping Worldwide

  Boston, Massachusetts, USA

  Miss Faber:

  You will see that the enclosed documents are delivered without fail to our operatives in the United States, as they are of the utmost importance.

  H. F.

  There is a rumble in the courtroom as Belcher passes the letter up to the Judge, saying, “It is believed that the letter is from a Lieutenant Harry Flashby, a known BritishIntelligence agent.”

  “Damn, Flashby!” I hiss to Ezra, grasping his arm in helpless fury. “I should have killed him when I had the chance!”

  “Perhaps,” says Ezra Pickering. “But calmness, now. Let it be, Jacky. We will have our turn.”

  After reading the note, Judge Thwackham asks, “And what else might be in that pouch?”

  “Entered now as evidence, Prosecution Exhibit C.”

  “Which is . . .”

  “A complete and accurate plan of the fortifications at Fort McHenry on Chesapeake Bay, the fort that guards our nation’s capital in Washington, D.C.,” announces Attorney Belcher in triumph, tossing the bundle on the table.

  There is a common gasp from the courtroom. They recall, all too well, that it was British Major André’s carrying very similar plans for the fort at West Point that got General Benedict Arnold branded a traitor. So now, I’m branded a traitor, too.

  The Judge brings down his gavel hard on his bench. “Order! Order in my court! Or I’ll throw out the lot of you!”

  The crowd settles down and waits, the scratching of the reporters’ pencils being the only sound in the room.

  “That’s better,” grumbles the Mad Thwacker. “Mr. Belcher, do you have anything else to offer in evidence?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Any more witnesses?”

  “No, Your Honor. The Prosecution rests.”

  “Counsel for the Defense, do you wish to examine the evidence?”

  “No, Sir,” says Ezra, rising to his feet. “I call to the stand Miss Jacky Mary Faber.”

  As I get to my feet and advance to the stand, Ezra whispers, “Keep it simple, Jacky. Let me ask the questions.”

  The clerk directs me to put my hand on the Bible and swears me in.

  “Do you, Jacky Mary Faber, swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do.”

  “Please be seated.”

  I settle in for the fight of my life, as Ezra comes up before me.

  “Miss Faber, have you seen the evidence against you?”

  “Yes, Sir, I have.”

  “And your answer as to the veracity thereof?”

  “Lies, all lies,” I reply. “I am but an honest merchant seaman, caught up in a web of lies woven by my enemies, and—”

  I catch Ezra’s warning glance and shut up.

  “Have you, at any time, raised your hand or caused harm to the United States of America?”

  “No, Sir, I have not.”

  Ezra nods approvingly.

  “Or have had anything at all to do with the evidence presented?”

  “No. I have nothing but love and respect for the United States of America. My own company, Faber Shipping Worldwide, is based in Boston and my ships are home-ported there. I—”

  “Thank you, Miss,” says Ezra. It is plain he does not want me to go on about my holdings, they being much greater than those of many in this room. I can see glances between several members of the jury. Just who does this twit of a girl think she is?

  “I have no further questions, Your Honor,” says Ezra, going back to his chair. “You may cross-examine, Mr. Belcher.”

  I am shocked by this turn of events, but I did know that if Ezra put me on the stand, then the Prosecution could have a shot at me, too. I get ready for it, and it comes on fast.

  “Miss Faber,” asks Mr. Belcher with a certain amount of relish, “have you ever been a member of British Intelligence?”

  “Yes, but it was against my—”

  “Please answer yes or no, Miss Faber.”

  “Yes,” I say, through clenched teeth.

  “Are you a member of British Intelligence at this time?”

  “No, Sir. I am not.”

  “Oh? The letter from Agent H. F. seems to contradict that statement.”

  “I don’t care. Harry Flashby is a bounder and a liar. I was given my discharge from that service last year. By a Mr. Peel, an honest member of British Intelligence.”

  “You have proof of that?”

  “Yes, Sir, I do . . . or will. My fiancé, Lieutenant James Emerson Fletcher, has gone to England to procure proof of that.”

  Attorney Belcher gives out a short snort. “I hope for your sake, Miss Faber, he gets back here in time.” He does not sound like he really means it. “Mr. Pickering, do you wish to redirect?”

  He does, and stands before me and asks, very plainly, “Miss Faber, do you deny all the charges laid against you in the matter of high treason?”

  “Yes, Sir, I do,” I reply as firmly as I am able.

  “Very well,” says Judge Thwackham. “Closing arguments, then. Attorney Belcher, you may proceed.”

  And proceed he does, mainly just lining up all the evidence against me, for really, that’s all he has to do. I see the men in the jury hanging on his every word.

  “Mr. Pickering, your summation, if you please,” requests the Judge, glancing at the clock high up on the wall.

  Yes, Ezra was most eloquent . . . “This poor young girl, cast about by the winds of Fate, forced to obey the orders of men much more powerful than she . . . From the war-torn fields of France, to the dangers of the undersea world, to those of Spain, too . . .”

  But all to no avail. Judge Hiram Thwackham charges the jury, then leaves the Bench while they deliberate in an anteroom. In an indecently short time, both Judge and jury are back.

  “Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached your verdicts?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, we have,” says the foreman of the twelve good men, holding a slip of paper.

  “Then read them, please.”

  “First count of resisting arrest, not guilty,” he announces. “Second count of resisting arrest, guilty. Charge of the kidnapp
ing of Master Edgar Polk, not guilty.”

  Here he pauses, then says, “On the charge of high treason, we find the Defendant guilty as charged.”

  My head falls to my chest as Judge Thwackham smiles and passes sentence upon me.

  “Jacky Mary Faber, you have been charged with the crime of treasonous acts against the United States ofAmerica and found guilty by a jury of your peers,” rumbles the Judge from his podium high above me. “Do you have anything to say before I pronounce sentence upon you?”

  I shake my head. “I am innocent of all the charges, and God knows that. Do what you will to me.”

  “Very well,” intones Judge Thwackham. “It is the judgment of this court that you, Jacky Mary Faber, be taken out three days from now, on the morning of November the tenth, to be hanged by the neck until you are dead. May God have mercy upon your soul.”

  I certainly hope he does . . .

  Chapter 39

  Carpenters have started building my scaffold.

  Conveniently, they are constructing it in the courtyard so that I might enjoy its progress when I take my daily exercise walks. The carpenters have set the sturdy eight-by-eight piers in the ground in a rectangle roughly ten feet by twelve. The posts are about twelve feet high and will support the gallows platform that will equal the same area. Midway on the short side, two additional eight-by-eight piers thrust upward for another eight feet. These, I know, will support the crossbeam that, in turn, will support the Executioner’s rope. I am sure it will support my weight. I believe they will attach the joints and begin laying the platform boards soon.

  Yes, I am given an hour a day to walk about the little yard that lies between the jail and the courthouse, such that I might take the air, for we must keep the condemned healthy, mustn’t we? We surely wouldn’t want her to die of some wasting disease before the Big Show. I am shackled with my hands tied behind me, and I’m under the watchful eye of the Matron, so there is no hope of my making a run for it. Plus, Deputy Cole and his cohorts stand fully armed inside the rope they have stretched to mark off my area and keep all others out, including any of my military friends who might want to spring me.

  A crowd does generally gather to watch me at my exercise. Morbid curiosity, I suppose. Hey, let’s watch the Dead Girl Walking.

  “Miss Faber, it is time to go in now,” announces Matron, and she leads me back to my cell. “I believe your lawyer is here.”

  “Jacky, you must not give up hope,” urges Ezra from his place on the bench opposite me. “I know that it is only two more days, but much can still happen. I have appeals pending in both the state and federal courts. You have friends in the city and they are doing their utmost to stay the . . . date of the . . . event. My cousin Senator Timothy Pickering is a member of Congress and is using all of his considerable influence in Washington. A delay could be in the offing. And your Mr. Fletcher is expected at any moment with the exonerating evidence from the British Admiralty, and—”

  “Thank you, Ezra,” I say, looking up at the tiny window above me, through which comes the sound of more sawing and hammering. “Your words do bring me comfort, and I know you are doing your very best for me.” He follows my eyes up to the little window and grimaces. “But you do not have to mince words. The date is the tenth and the ‘event’ is my execution by hanging.”

  “Well, yes,” says Ezra, looking down at his hands and not at me. “And there is some further information on that . . . topic.” He clears his throat and continues. “I have been informed that the state and federal officials have sent a state marshall to oversee the . . . procedure. And they have sent a professional executioner, as well.”

  My hand goes to my throat. I cannot help it. In a moment, I am able to respond, “That is good. I don’t want an amateur, and I do not want to suffer any more than necessary. I have never really been very brave.”

  “Please, Jacky, we must believe it won’t come to that.”

  “Your news is good, too, Ezra, because it will relieve Sheriff Williams of a sad duty, one that I know he did not want to perform. He is a good man, and this will ease his mind.”

  Ezra gets to his feet. “I must leave you now, Jacky. I have to get back to the city to keep pushing on the appeals.” He glances over at Deputy Cole to see if he is listening. Actually, he seems to be dozing. Ezra again speaks to me. “But know this, Jacky: You have friends in places you would not expect them to be. Higgins sends his regards and regrets that he cannot visit with you. That’s all I can say. Adieu, Jacky.”

  “Goodbye, Ezra. You have always been the best of friends.”

  After another doleful visit from Amy, I am greeted this day by the Plymouth Ladies Aid Society, come to bring me some comfort. There are three older women and two younger. They also bring fabric—black, of course—with which to sew me a proper dress. Must be a lady, of course, even if one is being hanged. They give me a prayer book, too, and offer spiritual advice, but I have already made my peace . . .

  I also received a letter from Mistress Pimm of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls. The Sheriff gave me the opened letter, satisfied that there was no knife or saw concealed within, and I pulled it out and read it.

  Miss Miranda Pimm

  Mistress of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls

  Beacon Street, Boston, Massachusetts

  November 8, 1809

  Miss Jacky Faber

  The Plymouth County Jail

  Plymouth, Massachusetts

  Dear Miss Faber,

  I hope this letter finds you as well as you can be, given the circumstances.

  I make no judgment as to your guilt or innocence of the charges against you. I write only to remind you that a Pimm’s girl is a Pimm’s girl to the last. While you are the first of my girls to be executed, you are not the first to die. It is expected of you that you will conduct yourself in such a manner as to be a credit to the school. You have before you the example of Lady Jane Grey and Anne Boleyn and Marie Antoinette, ladies all, who faced their brutal ends with grace and dignity. I expect nothing less of you.

  I know you to be a young lady of spirit and solid character, and I am confident that you will bear up under this ultimate tribulation.

  Pray to God, child. He will either spare you or He will take you to Him and, either way, it will be His will, and for the best.

  Yrs. Respectfully, and etc.,

  Miranda Pimm

  Great. Thanks, Mistress. Stiff upper lip and all that, and keep the Lawson Peabody Look upon your face till they put the hood over your head.

  And yes, Mistress, I will try to comply.

  I fold up the letter and slide it under my pillow for Amy to put in my seabag tomorrow with the rest of my personal effects.

  I sigh and look about me. I have thought of nothing except escape since they first brought me in here, but all those thoughts have been in vain. There is a lock on my shackle, a lock on the cell door, and yet another on the entrance to the corridor. I have no metal with which to fashion a key, and the Deputy and Sheriff keep too close an eye on me for any of my visitors to pass such a thing to me. No, I am truly lost. This is one cage that Jacky Faber will not get out of . . . until, that is, they take me out for the final time. Yes, I am truly—

  I am startled, not so much by a sound, but by the sudden lack of any noise, and I realize what has happened. Outside my window, there is no more hammering or sawing . . .

  “All right, boys, let’s give ’er a try,” I hear one of the carpenters say, and there is the rasp of a lever being thrown, and the sound of something falling with a whump!

  They have completed the gallows and are testing the trap, the platform that will fall from beneath my feet.

  I crawl into the bed and pull my knees to my chin, my ankle chain rattling on the bedstead as I do it. I put the pillow over my head and squeeze my eyes shut.

  Oh, was I ever so bad as to deserve this?

  Chapter 40

  The gallows is ready.

  It looms up
against the sky, and seems all right and proper. It has the required thirteen steps from the ground up to the platform on the right, and the noose is in place, looped over the center of the crossbeam. The edges of the trap are plainly visible at the front of the platform, the trap lever off the right. The carpenters have done a workmanlike job.

  When I am let out for my airing today, I am chilled to find that both the newly arrived Federal Marshall Overseer and the Hangman himself are up on the scaffold. The two are attired in somber suits, and the Marshall wears a round black hat. The Hangman is hatless, but a tight leather hood covers his upper face. Both of the men wear thick beards that go from neck to eyes, the Marshall’s being black laced with gray, and the Hangman’s a bristly brown. The former is a large man while the latter is a hunchback, very small. But hey, how big do you have to be to merely sling a rope?

  The Hangman is up there, testing the trap on the brand-spanking-new gallows over and over and over again. It is a hinged piece of the platform that lies level with the rest; that is, until the long lever over to the right is pulled. Then it swings smoothly down. Good job. Too bad this rig will be used only once, for it is very well made. He has rigged up a sandbag approximating my weight, around which he puts the noose. I hear a twang from the rope after each fall of the trap and look up to see the bag descend quickly and then jerk to a halt with another twang.

  Well, at least they are being professional, and I trust they will not botch the job. I do not want to suffer. I certainly hope that I will be able to make a good show of it and not shame my friends. But I have never been very brave, not really, and I fear I will quail at the end. I hope I will not . . .