Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business (26 page)

I cast my gaze about as the cases drone on.

Hmmm . . .
There is a clock high up on the wall and I notice it is almost noon. I suspect the Judge never misses his lunch after a fine morning of making people miserable. And sure enough, I am right.

I slip out of the gallery and sneak around the hallway, and there I spy a servant going into a chamber behind the high bench. He bears a tray laden with bread, meat, potatoes, and a steaming pot of tea. He places it on a table and withdraws. Presently I hear,
All rise . . .
and Judge Thwackham sweeps by and into his chambers for lunch.

Hmmmm . . .

 

 

 

 

 

Things have quieted down some. Governor Gore has threatened to call out the Massachusetts Militia if Boston doesn't behave. “By God, Boston was a thorn in the side of the British, and now it is a thorn in my own side. I will not have it, do you hear?” Of course, I'm thinking that
our fair city has always been of a rather rambunctious nature, and may it ever be so.

The fires have abated as well. I figure the reason is that Pyro Johnny is probably still nursing his scorched bum, though we continue to have a guard set around Faber Shipping's holdings, just in case. Pigger O'Toole is still around but is lying low for the time being, his troops nursing their own wounds gained in the big battle. I did approach the Hunchback in the street, giving him a low curtsy and thanking him for preventing the torching of my ship. But he merely grunted and went on his weary way. Ah, well, I tried.

Joannie and Ravi have been in the slammer for five days now. It tears me apart that I have been unable to get in to see them again, but I did manage to smuggle in some more bribe money to their oppressors, so I hope the kids are getting a little bit better treatment. The case comes up on Thursday, so all should be resolved then, one way or another.

The town being quiet for the time being, we get back to the business of the
Pig and the Playhouse . . .

 

We are in dress rehearsal and are ready to open tomorrow. The sets are made, the costumes sewn, and the whole place is a-twitter with feverish excitement.

The lights go up on Act 3, scene 2. It is the scene where the captive girls are all gathered about me, lying on the balcony shelf of the
Bloodhound.
I have just been brought down from the deck, bare-backed and sobbing after I had been betrayed by Elspeth Goodwin, tied to the mast, and whipped into semi-consciousness by the vile Captain Blodgett and his cat-o'-nine-tails, and wasn't that a well-staged scene. My back was bared,well, just down to the middle of it, and then, just as Blodgett swung the cat, the house-lights were killed and all that was heard was the swish of the cat and my anguished screams in the dark. Great theater, that; you can't say it isn't.

It is then we pledge our loyalty to each other.

I lift my head and speak up first.

“I, Jacky Faber, swear on my very life that I will never betray you, my Sisters, and I will bend every fiber of my being to gaining our release from this prison, even if I do not live to see it.”

Vainglorious, I know; yes, and corny, too, but it makes for good theater. I look to Clarissa, who is playing herself . . .

“Ah, Clarissa Worthington Howe, do swear on mah life that Ah will not betray you, mah Sisters, and that Ah will bend every fiber of mah being to gaining owah release from this hellhole, even if Ah do not live to see it.”

Polly Von, playing the role of Dolley Frazier, is the next one up to take the pledge . . .

“I, Dolley Frazier, do so swear on my life that I will never betray you, my Sisters, in any way and will strive with every fiber of my being to gain our freedom from this hell, even if I do not live to see it.” Polly possesses the true gift of the actress to softly voice her lines, yet somehow manage to project her speech to the rear of the building. Some of the girls, those heretofore untrained in the theater, resort to shouting their lines, which doesn't work, but Mr. Fennell and Mr. Bean have managed to coax them along to an acceptable level of competence. That pair may be the worst of ham actors, but they do know their business.

And so on down the line, till all the girls pledge their loyalty unto death to their Sisters in bondage . . . all the girls except for one . . .

Elspeth Goodwin, the girl who had betrayed me in hopes of gaining her own freedom by doing so and had been rewarded with only a dismal piece of blue ribbon for her treachery, kneels next to me, sobbing out her shame and dismay. I put my hand on her head and forgive her.

No, it is not Elspeth herself playing that role. It is well that her parents have moved out of state and taken their beloved daughter with them. When last I spoke with her, she seemed recovered from her ordeal, but we certainly wouldn't want our reenactment to force her to relive it. It had been a tough time for all, but some suffered their time in that hellhole of a ship more than others.

“She may have forgiven you, Elspeth, but Ah have not!” hisses Clarissa, grabbing the girl by the hair and pulling her head back.

“Please don't hurt me, please,” whimpers the young actress, shrinking back under the intensity of Clarissa's gaze. She is
very
convincing and very much into the role, and I suspect Clarissa's grip on the girl's hair is a little tighter than it needs to be so it probably really does hurt.

“You shall wear this mark of shame until the day you die!” snarls Clarissa, straddling the girl and tying the despised rag of blue ribbon around her hair, pulling it cruelly tight. “And Ah hope that day is soon!”

Booooommmmm . . .

All heads jerk up and out of character at the sound.

Booooommmmmm . . .

“What's that?” asks Clarissa, letting go of the gasping actress's hair and rising to her feet above her.

Booooommmmm . . .

“Sounds like a Navy ship entering the port and saluting the Governor,” I say, recalling many such salutes in the past.

“Could it be?” asks Polly Von, getting to her feet and looking in the direction of the sound.

“Well, let's go see, Sister,” I say, and we are up and out the door.

 

Yes, it is the mighty
Chesapeake
, all flags flying, guns booming, and looking absolutely glorious!

Polly Von flies down the street, easily outdistancing me, but then I am not the beloved mistress of Second Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne, United States Marine Corps.

As Polly anxiously awaits the warping in of the warship to the south side of Long Wharf, I let my eyes roam about and see that there is yet another vessel entering the port of Boston.

Hmmm . . .
It's a good-sized brig, sitting pretty low in the water, which shows she's got a full cargo . . . but of what, I wonder. It flies a Portuguese flag at the stern, but from the masthead, a long pennant is whipping around, all gold and green and somewhat familiar.

The ship is heading for a berth very close to the offices of HOC Shipping. It is quickly warped in and tied up, and then I notice the black-clad Hunchback leaning on his staff, lurching toward the lowered gangway. Just then, an errant breeze whips up and straightens out the pennant.

It shows a golden dragon on a field of green, snorting fire. Beneath its belly, in red characters, is Cheng Shih's calligraphic chop. It is her safe-passage banner, and it suddenly comes to me . . .

H. O. C.?

Of course, you idiot! HOC. How could you be so stupid? It stands for House of Chen!

I stand there and fume. Then I pound over to the ship, newly arrived, I now know, from Rangoon.

Charlie, you double-dealing, slant-eyed, inscrutable Oriental son of a bitch! I'll get you for this! And you'd better have news of Jaimy!

J. E. Fletcher

Representative, House of Chen

Boston, Massachusetts, USA

 

Journal Entry, July 27, 1809

It was with great satisfaction that I greeted the arrival of Charlie Chen's vessel,
La Ciudad de Lisbon
, with its cargo of rich spices, silks, et cetera, for it meant that I would soon be able to leave this place and all of its sorrow behind me.

As I came aboard to introduce myself to the Captain, I saw J. F. come running down the wharf and up the gangway, her skirts held at half-mast before her. I stepped to the side as the furious Miss J. stormed up to the Captain, demanding that he explain what the hell he was doing here on “her turf,” as she put it, and “furthermore, what news do you have of a certain Mr. James Emerson Fletcher?”

The Captain, whose name turned out to be Boaz, said nothing, but merely bowed and handed her a letter and then had her escorted off, rather forcefully, by a man who appeared to be a Gurkha. She fumed, but she went, clutching the letter.

I then met with Captain Boaz, who also handed me a letter from Charlie Chen and invited me down into his cabin for refreshments so I would be able to read it in comfort.

Over a glass of excellent Portuguese Madeira I opened the letter and read . . .

 

Charles Chen

House of Chen

Rangoon, Burma

 

Mr. James Emerson Fletcher

Envoy, House of Chen

State Street, Boston, Massachusetts, USA

June 3, 1809

 

Dear Cheung Tong,

As you read this, you are undoubtedly seated in the main cabin of my fine ship
Ciudad de
Lisbon
, a well-found craft I picked up last year when it made an ill-considered smuggling run into the waters off Burma. Tsk, tsk, foolish mariners.

I hope you will find the cargo intact. Captain Boaz has a detailed manifest and I expect that a careful inventory will be taken. After that, have the goods taken ashore and sell them for the best price you can get.

Now, to another matter, Long Boy:

Captain Boaz was shipwrecked last year in the Straits of Malacca and he is most desirous of being reunited with his family in Portugal. He requests that he be relieved of his command of the
Ciudad de Lisbon
and be allowed to go on his way. I have acceded to his request as he has paid off, through good service to me, both his debt and the ransom of his wife and daughters.

I am sure you have noticed Ganju Thapa and six of his fine Gurkhas are aboard. I sent them on this voyage to insure that Captain Boaz did not make off with my ship and its very rich cargo, thinking to hell with his wife and daughters. Both Captain Boaz and Ganju Thapa have been instructed to follow your orders to the letter. I am sure they will do so.

I assume you have by now met with Number Two Daughter, Ju kau-jing yi, and she has calmed down a bit and you both are locked in some sort of amorous embrace—ah the follies of youth. Better to be old, like me.

But whatever the case, I offer you the following: Take over the command of the
Ciudad de Lisbon
and sail her back to me after she is off-loaded and the business concluded. I am sure you have set up my Boston offices with people competent to run my United States operation. You may bring the Little Round-Eyed Barbarian with you if you wish. It will be a pleasure to see her. After you return to Rangoon, you may go on your merry way, or ways, with my blessing.

And the blessing of my Number One Daughter, Sidrah, as well. She looks forward to your return.

 

May All the Pertinent Gods Smile Upon You,

C. Chen

The dinner at the
Pig last night was a joyous, riotous affair. How could it not be with the entire cast and crew of
In the Belly of the Bloodhound
being in attendance: Messrs. Fennell and Bean, booming out poetical verses; our great baritones, Solomon Freeman and Enoch Lightner, the incomparable Shantyman, booming out their songs; and me, adding my noise to the raucous mix with voice, fiddle, and feet. Bottles of claret were cracked, barrels of ale were set on their sides with spigots pounded into their bungholes, and their contents freely passed out to the guests. Great platters of roast beef and potatoes and tureens of thick gravy were served. Several roast geese were presented to great acclaim, and bowls of our trademark Pig's Peanuts were everywhere, their empty shells crackling under the feet of the revelers. Yes, that set Faber Shipping back more than a few dimes, you may be sure, but we should make up the cost from ticket sales. We are sold out for at least the first three performances.

For whatever else will be said of the Pig and Whistle
in the future, it will be well known that we knew how to throw a party.

Randall Trevelyne is seated at the head table with his Polly Von on his right and me on his left. To my left side is John Higgins and beyond him is Ezra Pickering. It saddens me to see that Amy Trevelyne is not by his side . . .

“Miss Amy will attend the premiere tomorrow, but she will seek lodging elsewhere,” said Ezra, with some regret in his voice. I know he is truly distressed by this rift between Amy and me.
Will you never forgive me, Sister?

Higgins, too, notices my unhappiness at this state of affairs and places a comforting hand on my arm.

“Do not take this too hard, Miss,” he says. “All good friends have quarrels and when the falling out is between such friends as you and Miss Trevelyne, well, the pain is the more intense. Please have patience. I am sure you and she will reconcile.”

I pat his hand and say, “Good Higgins, you always lend me comfort. I hope things work out as you say.”

The Hunchback is also in attendance, keeping to himself in a dark corner. He does not, however, escape the attention of Randall Trevelyne.

“What's that?” asks Randall of me, hooking his thumb toward the man.

I follow his gaze and say, a bit testily, “Oh. That's Mr. Tong. He's a representative of the House of Chen, a trading company owned by my former friend and benefactor Chopstick Charlie of Rangoon.”