Under the Jolly Roger

by L. A. Meyer

  I bring my face back out of the water and let my hair come down in streaming rivulets over my face and shoulders and back. It's probably not gonna dry in time for tonight's show, but I'll just put it up in a braid and it'll be fine.

  That Ishmael was a fine lad, though, think I, musing back on the voyage again. He certainly made the trip a pleasant one, to have one such as him as your mate. I toss a thought out to Jaimy, somewhere out there in the world, but, at least, a lot nearer now. Don't worry, Jaimy, I was a good girl, mostly... I mean, what's a little kiss here and there. Here. And there. Between friends.

  The girl comes back in with another pitcher and pours it in and I groan and writhe in absolute sinful pleasure and think about nothing except how good it feels. Then I start to think on the songs I'll do in tonight's show. This being England I'd probably better stay away from the Irish and Scottish stuff and stick to the British. Hmmm. Just coming off a whaler as I am, maybe I'll start with "The Bonny Ship the Diamond." It's got that good, rousing chorus. That'll get 'em started.

  "Cheer up me lads,

  Let your hearts never fail,

  For the Bonny Ship the Diamond

  Goes fishing for the whale!"

  I sing a bit more of it:

  "Well, it'll be light both day and night

  When the whaler lads come home,

  With a ship that's full of oil, me boys,

  And money to their names.

  "They'll make the beds all for to rock,

  And the blankets for to tear,

  And every lass in Peter's Head

  Will sing hush-a-by my dear."

  Boys and men, I swear, they always get back to that. Having their pleasures and then going off having adventures and stuff and leaving the girls behind to rock the cradle. Not this girl, though, by God.

  After I had hauled myself out of the bath and dried and dressed, I went out of the inn and found the town crier, who for a few pence would go about the neighboring streets ringing a bell and crying out, "Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! Tonight for one night only the re-nowned Miss Jacky Faber will be in per-for-mance at the Rose and Crown Pub-lic House! New-ly re-turned from a tri-um-phant tour of the Am-er-i-cas, Miss Faber will en-ter-tain with songs and bal-lads both joy-ful and sad, se-ri-ous and com-ic, and will ac-com-pany herself with the fid-dle, con-cer-tina, and flage-o-lay! All are wel-come and are sure to be pleased! Eight o'clock at the Rose and Crown! Hear ye! Hear ye..."

  I was glad I had hired the crier, for the tavern was full to overflowing come night with a jolly, good-natured crowd. The show went over right well with the cheering audience demanding three encores before they finally let me bow off for good. I left flushed with pleasure, for I so very much love both the joy of the performance that I give, and the applause that I receive in return.

  So now, having gotten some more coin for my money belt, I'm lying in bed thinking of tomorrow and what it might bring. Not one letter, Jaimy, not one, except for the one you pressed into my hand on the day you left me in Boston.

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Ah, well, tomorrow I will know. Even if he is out at sea, which he very probably is, then I will find out from his family and friends just how he feels about me. I just hope he's all right. A lot could have happened since. ... No, don't think about that.

  I turn on my side and pull my knees to my chin.

  Yes, my girl, tomorrow you will know, but right now you will go to sleep.

  Chapter 2

  I take the coachman's offered hand and step down from the carriage. Again my new friends and I had sat on top of the coach and laughed and sang our way into London on this glorious, sparkling day. It is late morning as I bid farewell to my companions, pick up my seabag, and enter the coach house. Five minutes later I have hired a one-horse carriage.

  On this day, this special day, I have put on my glorious riding habit, the one Amy gave me for Christmas last year, the coat all maroon and the skirt all dark, dark green and the trim all gray and beautiful—with a gathering of white lace at my throat and the stiff lapels turned back just so. I put some powder in my hair and comb it so that it sweeps up under my jaunty Scot's bonnet. My hat's got a gold pin on one side and feathers hangin' down all elegant. Why us young women put white powder in our hair to make it look gray, I don't know, but it's the ton, the style, so I do it. And I must admit it looks grand.

  I really like the way the jacket clutches my chest and makes me feel all trim and taut. Also, I can tuck my shiv in its usual spot next to my ribs and I can't do that in a dress. Plus, I think I look smashing in it. I really think I could charm my way into Buckingham Palace in this rig. I know I could. Yes, Little Mary Faber, late of the Rooster Charlie Gang, formerly residing under Blackfriars Bridge, Cheap-side, returns to London in fine style.

  "Nine Brattle Lane, Driver," I say grandly, and climb aboard. "If you please."

  As we clatter through London, I get more and more nervous about what's going to happen today. Jaimy and I had exchanged promises to marry, promises that I know were heartfelt and true, and we had even exchanged rings, sort of rings, anyway—they were the rings of the Dread Brotherhood of Ship's Boys of HMS Dolphin that we had put through our ears and welded shut that wonderful day in Kingston on the island of Jamaica. I have mine on a chain about my neck so that it hangs close to my heart, since Mistress Pimm had it snipped out of my ear the first day I was at her school. Sometimes I put it back in my ear to remind me of the old days, but today I had thought I'd better look as ladylike as possible, so I didn't. I take a deep breath and try to calm the butterflies kicking up a fuss in my belly.

  Not only did I get no letters from Jaimy when I was back in the States, there's a good chance he didn't get any of mine, either. I saw our old mate Davy last fall when his ship came into Boston, and he told me Jaimy hadn't got any letters from me and I had sent a whole bunch of them. I figured out that someone in Jaimy's household must have been intercepting the letters and I have a good idea who. I hated the idea that Jaimy might think I was faithless because of this, so before Davy left, I dashed off a letter and made Davy swear on his Brotherhood tattoo to put the letter in Jaimy's hand and his hand only if they should meet. I do hope their paths did cross, I do hope. ... Ah, we're here.

  It is a nice-looking brick house with stone steps and curtained windows and it has two stories with a chimney at each end and appears to have a yard in back. There are some small boys playing with a hoop in the street and it gives me pleasure to think of Jaimy as a boy playing in this same street and in that yard.

  I ask the driver to wait a moment, as I do not know what will happen inside. I walk up the stairs, brush my hands over my skirt, adjust my gay bonnet, take a deep breath, and lift the knocker and rap three times. The old Brotherhood secret number.

  You calm down now, you. Jaimy's probably not even here, he's surely at sea, he's...

  The door opens and a young woman in serving gear peeks out.

  "Yes, Miss?" she says. She is ginger haired, round faced, and appears cheerful and good-natured.

  "Good day, Miss. My name is Jacky Faber and..."

  Her smile broadens and she says, "Oh, yes, Miss! Please come in."

  Well, that's a good sign, I'm thinking, as I step into the foyer and look about.

  "I'll go get me mistress," says the girl as she spins and leaves the room.

  I look about at the pictures on the wall, thinking that Jaimy must have known this room very well. Is that a portrait of him and his brother? I think the one on the left is...

  I hear a rustle behind me and I spin around to find a woman of medium height with dark hair going gray. She is well dressed in what I know to be the latest fashion and in what appears to be the finest of fabrics. She holds herself rigidly upright, and she is glaring at me most severely.

  Uh, oh...

  I gulp and drop down in my best curtsy. "Good day, Missus," I quavers, coming up from the curtsy and meeting her eyes, eyes that look to have very little love for me in them. "If
it please you, my name is Jacky Faber and I'm a friend of..."

  "It does not please me in the slightest. I know who you are and I know what you are," she says, coldly, indignation plain upon her face. "You will not step any further into this house."

  What?

  "I cannot believe you would be so brazen as to come here," she continues, biting off every word. "Even one such as you."

  "I ... I don't understand, Missus," says I, stunned. "I was only..."

  "You have come here only to bring more disgrace upon my family. I know your history, and I must say I find it appalling. And now, with this latest outrage, the whole world knows of your illicit liaison with my son."

  This latest outrage? What is she talking about? What latest outrage? What... I ain't believin' this, but she ain't done yet, oh no, she ain't.

  "You are obviously a cunning and opportunistic adventuress. As such, you forced your attentions on a young and impressionable boy under very questionable circumstances, and now you come here to seek to better yourself by marrying into my family." She takes a deep breath, looking down her long nose at me. "I can assure you that will not happen, not as long as I live. He is not a match for you and you are certainly not a match for him."

  She has worked herself up into a fine lather of hatred for my poor self, me standin' there shakin' in front of her, my belly churnin' in dismay. I am unable to speak.

  "I am gratified to inform you that James has, at last, seen the folly of his ways and wishes no more to see you nor to have any sort of communication with you."

  Oh, Jaimy, please, no, it can't be, it can't...

  "Be gone, girl, and do not come back. You will receive no welcome from anyone in this house, as we do not welcome tramps!"

  Tramp? She called me a tramp? That's enough to shake me out of my confusion, and I throw my chin in the air and put on the Look and rear back and say, "What you say may be true, Mrs. Fletcher, but I'll believe it when I hear it from Jaimy's own dear lips! Lips with which, I might add, I am very familiar!"

  "His name is James, you dirty thing, you! Pah!" spits Mrs. Fletcher. "Hattie, put her out!"

  The girl rushes to the door and opens it.

  Shattered, I stumble through the door and it slams behind me. I grab the railing and stand there stunned and disbelieving. My worst fears ... My chest is heaving and my heart is pounding and I think I'm going to be sick. I think I'm going to throw up. I think...

  I hear the sound of a window opening behind me, and in a daze I turn to see that it is Hattie, the serving girl, who has opened it. She leans out and whispers loudly to me, "Don't you believe everything the old dragon says, Miss. Mr. James is home on leave and is out in the country with friends today, but he'll be at the races at Epsom Downs tomorrow. And, Miss, he always speaks most highly ... Ow! Oh! Mistress, please!"

  The girl disappears back into the house and there are more cries of pain.

  I stand there and bite my knuckles, thinking ... I am sorry, girl, that you got a beating because of me, but I bless you for it, I do, for you have given me back some hope. I will see Jaimy and I will hear it from him.

  I climb back into the carriage and take several deep, very deep, breaths to calm myself down. Well, that couldn't have gone any worse, I reflect, after I've collected my mind somewhat, and settle back in the seat.

  "Cheapside, Coachman," I say to the driver. "The Admiral Benbow Inn, near Blackfriars Bridge."

  We rattle off.

  The coachman gets me to the Benbow, but he doesn't want to leave me off.

  "It's a dangerous place, Miss, are you sure..."

  "I am sure, and I thank you for your concern," I say as I pay him his fare. "Don't wait for me as I will be taking lodgings here." He drives off, shaking his head.

  I pick up my seabag and look at the Admiral Benbow, sitting there on the corner of Water Street and Union. Was it only a little over two years ago that I stood right here on this spot, a beggar in rags, listening to sailors singing of Bombay Rats and Cathay Cats and Kangaroos? Then, ragged Little Mary Faber couldn't even go in the back door of this place. Now, with the Look—eyes hooded, head up, lips together, teeth apart—she sails right in through the front door.

  "Ah yes, my good woman," I say to the astounded landlady behind the bar, frosting her with my Look, "I am Lady Faber and I have business hereabouts and I will have a room." With that, I snap one of my silver coins down on the counter. Then I brush off my fingers as if I am not used to handling money directly, because of my high station, don'cha know?

  She eyes the coin greedily, with nary a thought in her mind to deny me entry.

  "Yes, Milady," she says, scooping up the coin. "Jim, take up the Lady's bag, for Chris'sakes; don'cha know quality when you sees it?" Jim shambles out of the shadows and picks up my seabag. "The good room, Jim. I'm sure it will be to milady's likin'," she says, grinning a gap-toothed smile.

  "I am sure it will be ... adequate," says I, growing not the least bit less haughty. "I will go up and refresh myself and when I come down in an hour, will you see that I have a basket of food prepared—breads, meats, cheeses, puddings? Some cider, perhaps? A large basket, if you would? Thank you so very much."

  I follow this Jim up to my room, give him a penny for his troubles, and, after the door closes behind him, Lady Faber flops back on the bed and reflects that all the world's a fake.

  A tousled head pops up from under the pile of rags and straw that is the old Blackfriars Bridge kip. It belongs to a boy of about eight years of age, and it is plain that he is the sentry posted to stay behind and watch and make sure that no one tries to take over the kip while the rest of the gang was out and up to the day's mischief. His eyes go wide at seeing me ducking my head under the edge of the bridge and entering the hideout. Scurrying outside, he puts two fingers in his mouth and lets out three piercing whistles.

  Three blasts—that was our old signal, too—trouble at the kip! Everybody get back! Guess it got handed down from gang to gang. Ah, tradition...

  It all comes rushing back at me—the memories of this place. ... The kip itself, the place where we slept all in a pile of urchin, rag, and hay, sits up on a sort of stone ledge. I dust off a spot on it and sit myself down, placing the basket next to me. I don't remember the kip smelling quite this bad, but back then I was part of the smell and so wouldn't notice. The rest of it is the same, too—the river slipping by below, the heavy stones looming overhead, interlocking together to form the underside of the bridge, arching away in the distance. Those stones always scared me a bit, thinkin' that some day or night they would let loose and come down and crush us all like bugs. But they never did, and I guess they never will.

  The boy comes back and sits down on the pile of old rags and smelly hay and stares at me, saying nothing. I don't say anything, either—I'll wait for the others to get here.

  While I wait, I look about and think back to that first terrible night I spent in this place—the gang had picked me up in some dark alley where I had run to in grief and horror after my family had died and I had been put out in the streets in order to conveniently follow them in death—put out and placed in the streets by Muck, the Corpse Seller himself, may he rot in everlasting Hell for his crimes. But I didn't die, and Charlie and the bunch picked me up and brought me here, and the next day I was set to the begging and, after a while, this dank and forbidding place began to look like home. I shiver a bit, thinking of all that.

  Soon there's the sound of pounding feet outside coming from several directions, and then a boy and a girl, both about twelve, come in. Then from the other side, two girls about nine and then another boy of the same age. The boys are all dressed in ragged shirts and trousers, most barely reaching their knees before turning into tatters, and the girls in formless shifts that come down to midthigh in some, midcalf in others. The shifts, once white, are now gray. One of the younger girls has tied up her hair with a piece of old blue ribbon that she undoubtedly had picked out of the trash. Her face is dirty, her hair is
a tangled mess, and the ribbon itself is wrinkled and stained. Still, the sight of it touches me.

  The oldest girl looks at me with deep suspicion plain on her face. I do not blame her—what's somebody like me, dressed as I am, doing in their kip? I look at her with special interest 'cause I know she's the me of a couple of years ago, and it is she who says, "Ain't nobody here wants to be 'dopted, Mum, so you best be on your way."

  My, my. It's a great day for putting Jacky Faber out, I'll own.

  "That's right, Mum. Now...," begins the older boy. I notice that all of them are carrying rocks.

  "Now, now, mates," I say, turnin' back to the old talk to put them at their ease, "I ain't here to adopt none of yiz. I'm just here to visit me old kip and maybe find out what happened to me old mates what used to live 'ere with me."

  There are snorts of disbelief all around.

  "Nay, it's true, and I'll prove it to you," says I, and I point to a place between two of the overhead stones. "There's a leak there, and there, and there, but the biggest one is right there, which we called Old Guzzler, from the sound it made when it was really rippin'."