Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business (27 page)

Randall nods, but he continues to look upon the Hunchback for a while, his demeanor thoughtful.

Beyond Ezra is Clarissa Worthington Howe, and seated next to her is young Lieutenant Gale, a friend of Randall's who cannot believe his good luck in being put next to this rare beauty. She is in fine form tonight, spreading her charm all about, but she does not talk to Randall and she spares very few words for her co-star, Polly Von. Clarissa is back in my bed at night now that Joannie's out of it for now, and I do not mind—neither she nor I like sleeping alone—and we do talk as people will as we drop off to sleep, and I find that she still harbors a resentment of some sort. Against Randall . . .? Against Polly . . .? Against me . . .? I don't know, but I don't let it bother me. She will have to sort that out for herself.

I shake those thoughts from my mind and put it back on the festivities. I am called upon for a song and I get up on the table and deliver it with voice, fiddle, and feet. And the gaiety roars on into the night, but eventually we have to call a halt and say goodnight to all, for I want my cast to be fresh for tomorrow's show . . . reasonably fresh, at least.

“Goodnight, my friends,” I say with outspread arms while still on the table top. “God rest ye merry and we shall have a glorious day tomorrow!”

Goodbyes are said, with final hoots and huzzahs, and all eventually make it back to their beds wherever they be in this town. Molly is off with Arthur McBride, and Polly Von takes Randall Trevelyne's hand and leads him up to her own room above the Pig. I notice that particular departure does not escape Clarissa Worthington Howe's narrowed eyes as she and I head off to my room.
Come on, Clarissa, let it go!
I am thinking, as I give her a poke and a shove in the direction of my bed.

 

But that was last night and this is now.

I rise in the morning and shove Clarissa out of bed. She is a hard one to awaken come morn, that's for sure. That's what comes from wanting to stay up for half the night, and then in the morning she's a sodden, snoring lump. I get on to the business of the day, and the first order of business is to get down to House of Chen Oriental Shipping Company and beard that Hunchback in his den.

I have the letter from Chopstick Charlie clasped in my hand as I enter. It was short and to the point:

 

Charles Chen

House of Chen

Rangoon, Burma

June 3, 1809

 

Miss Jacky Faber

Faber Shipping Worldwide

State Street, Boston, Massachusetts, USA

 

My dear Little Round-Eyed Barbarian, Greetings,

You were surprised to see my ship coming into your harbor unannounced?   I hope you were—it has given Old Chops a great deal of pleasure imagining the look on your face when you saw the Golden Dragon pennant flying over my ship. I only wish I could have been there.

Surely, Ju kau-jing yi, you could not really expect that I should hand my entire East–West operation over to you, beloved as you are. No, there is too much money and future trade involved for that. I have had inquiries made into the nature of Faber Shipping Worldwide (and I do have to chuckle at the word “Worldwide” . . . oh, you are such a proud little thing!). But do not worry, Number Two Daughter, I shall make sure that you will have a few crumbs thrown your way such that your little company might survive.

I have not yet been informed that you have made contact with your Mr. James Fletcher. A pity, that . . . He did leave here quite some time ago. However, as my envoy, he did have some business to conduct on my behalf in New York. Perhaps he was held up there. For your sake, I hope not. But also remember, dear one, “There are many fish in the sea,” and some of those fishes are handsome young men.

Sidrah sends her love, as do I.

 

Cheers,

Chops,

 

“I demand to see Mr. Tong!” I say, well steamed as I storm through the front door of what I now know to be the House of Chen Oriental Shipping Company.

There are boxes and boxes of goods being offloaded from the ship and opened, their contents placed on shelves for sale to the public, and that public is streaming in. The word has certainly gotten around and, yes, I, too, have seen the circulars posted on walls and poles, advertising the exotic goods.
Damn! That commerce should have been mine!

A young man nods and goes through a door, and presently the Hunchback shuffles out, his head down, hair hanging in face, the eye with the black patch over it pointed in my direction. He stands behind a table laden with goods.

“Yes?” he rasps.

“Look, I know now you come from Chopstick Charlie out of Rangoon. He and I know each other. He sent you here to compete with me. That is his idea of a joke. That is fine. All's fair in love and war and business, and all that, but—good God, Ganju Thapa!”

I am startled, to say the least, when the massive Gurkha steps into the room, turban on head, inward-curved sword at his wide leather belt, big blooming white linen pants below. I gulp in fear, for I have caused, in the past, several lumps to be put on his head. He, however, does not seem to hold any grudges, and merely bows his head to me and grunts. I put the palms of my hands together and bow and then continue to speak to the Hunchback . . .

“But what I really want to know is if you have any word whatsoever as to what has become of one James Emerson Fletcher, who was sent by me to Rangoon to be cured of madness and of whom I have not seen nor heard from since. What do you know? Speak up, man!”

“I am sorry, Miss,” croaks the Hunchback, “but I was taken into Mr. Chen's employ only recently. I had heard of a Mr. Fletcher, who was dispatched to New York on Mr. Chen's business. More than that I do not know. If it was this Mr. Fletcher's intent to meet with you, I can only wonder why he has not yet done so.”

I put my hand to my mouth and stifle a sob. “Intent, indeed . . . I have no idea just what Jaimy Fletcher intends.”

“I am sorry, Miss, but I must attend to my duties.”

“Of course, Mr. Tong,” I say in parting. “Thank you for your time. And if you hear anything of Mr. Fletcher . . .”

“Of course, Miss. Good day to you.”

 

Well, that did nothing for my spirits, weighed down as they were with thoughts of Ravi and Joannie languishing in durance vile, I can tell you, but when I got back to the Pig, they were somewhat restored, as I found Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne, USMC, ready to take me and Miss Polly Von on a tour of USS
Chesapeake
,
sister ship to the mighty USS
Constitution
,
and very close in design to my beloved HMS
Dolphin
,
so it is sure to cheer me, and it does. Though all the old familiar sights do bring a nostalgic tear to my former ship's boy eye, it is grand to see all the rigging, running gear, sails, and guns, the brass polished and shining, all the lads dressed in their best. And it did not hurt Randall's reputation in the least to be seen parading about his ship to the wonder of all, with a laughing dolly-mop on each arm, no it did not.

But, eventually, the tour was over so we descended the gangplank to wend our way back to the Pig. We did, after all, have a premiere performance this early evening.

As we stroll along, we are forced to walk by Skivareen's, and a number of Pigger O'Toole's minions are slouching outside on benches, taking in the noonday sun. Pigger is in the center of them, with a tankard in his right hand and his left on Glory's thigh. Pyro Johnny is there, too, sitting crosslegged in the dirt, giggling and frying helpless ants with a magnifying glass.

I intend to pass by and say nothing, but Pigger doesn't allow it . . .

“Now, look at this, will you,” he says grandly. “Soldier boy here's got himself not one, but
two
Cheapside whores. I knows 'em both, Glory, from back in London. Little Mary Faber and, hello, Polly Von! You remember our days back in my kip on Paternoster, don't you now? Fine times we had, oh, yes we did. Now, that one on the left, that's Mary Faber—strip 'er down and she was naught but skin and bones, but still a bit of fun in her scrawny way—but that Polly Von without her knickers . . . yes, yes . . . how that little girl could dance . . . It was a sight to see. Knew both of 'em before, during, and after they went into the Miss Bessie's whorehouse, I sure did.”

I leap on Randall, pinning his arms to his side, trying to prevent him from pulling his sword and running it through Pigger. He's got it halfway out and his face is a mask of cold fury.

“Don't do it, Randall!” I shout in his ear. “If you kill him, they'll have you up on charges! You'll lose your commission over a fat pig! Polly! Help me hold him!”

She wraps her own arms around him as the swine on the benches roar with laughter. “Randall! Dearest! I have told you all about my life in London and it was the truth! What he is saying is all lies! I swear on my life!”

“That's right, Soldier Boy,” says Pigger, rising. “You lay a hand on me and you'll be here in Boston, awaiting trial, while your fancy ship leaves without you. Come on, Glory, let's go inside where the company is a damn sight better.”

He turns to spit in the dirt, close by Randall's boots.

“Enjoy your whore, Soldier Boy. Hope you don't catch nothin'. Heard she gave a bunch of fellers the clap back in Cheapside, so be careful.”

Pigger's foul crew files into Skivareen's, and I notice that a smirking Wiggins has appeared and is the last to enter, no doubt to collect his graft.

I still cling to Randall, who is beside himself with fury.

“Let me go,” he snarls. “I'm going in there.”

“No, you are not. You see that fat bastard that just went in? That is the Law around here, and it would be you going to jail, not Pigger. Please, Randall, give me two days and I will handle this. If I don't succeed, we'll both go in there with blades drawn, I swear it! Me and you, comrades-in-arms, on the battlefield of Jena–Auerstadt again! We will get him! I promise!”

His breathing slows down and he is calmer.

“Two days. That's it,” he vows, and I believe him.

“Good, Randall. Now let's get back to the Pig. Polly, we've got a show to put on.”

 

When we get back, we go into full production mode, getting the Playhouse,
In the Belly of the Bloodhound
, and its cast of characters ready to go.

 

July 29, 1809, City Edition

 

G
OINGS
O
N
A
BOUT
T
OWN

by David Lawrence, Jr.

 

N
EW
P
LAY
O
PENS AT
E
MERALD
P
LAYHOUSE

 

In the Belly of the Bloodhound
, a play in three acts by Miss Amy Wemple Trevelyne, had its premiere performance last night at the Emerald Playhouse on State Street and your humble correspondent was in attendance and I must say I enjoyed myself hugely.

The production was well staged and professionally directed and performed. Very inventive lighting, using the natural light from judiciously draped overhead windows, facilitated the smooth changing of scenes, and ingenious stagecraft gave the impression that one was actually on a ship rolling on the high seas.

Without giving away too much of the plot, suffice it to say it concerns the actual abduction of some thirty young women from one of our most prestigious local schools by dastardly White Slavers with the intent of selling them to the fleshpots of Arabia, and their heroic efforts to save themselves from that awful fate. There are thrills, narrow escapes, thrilling swordplay, and yes, a good deal of humor and wit. It is further worthy of note that many of the girls who were actually on that fateful voyage play the part of themselves in this production.

I must point out for special mention, the three principal actresses, Miss Polly Von as Dolley, and Misses Jacky Faber and Clarissa Worthington Howe, who played themselves. Also worthy of note is Mr. Solomon Freeman, a Negro, who gave a magnificent performance as the villainous black slaver Sin-Kay.

Equally satisfying were the choral numbers the girls performed as a group. Especially moving was Mozart's “Sanctus,” sung when the girls' spirits were at their lowest point. It certainly raised your correspondent's spirits.

At the conclusion, as bows were taken, the audience rose as one in a standing ovation and demanded, “Author! Author!” and Miss Trevelyne did stand and modestly accept the plaudits.

Performances are daily, except Sunday, at Six O'clock. A full bar is provided at Intermission. Tickets are reasonably priced and available at the box office. The theme of the play is adult in nature, so best leave the children at home. Furthermore, it is rumored that various religious groups plan to picket the theater, due to the content of the play and the somewhat skimpy costumes worn by the young ladies for reasons of verisimilitude and faithfulness to the conditions of the actual voyage, but trouble is not expected.

All in all, a most enjoyable evening. Highly Recommended.

DL

“Ha!” I exult, passing the paper over to Clarissa. “We are a hit!”

We are at breakfast—a rather late breakfast, considering all the celebrating we did last night after the last curtain fell—and I lean back in satisfaction. If that line about “rather skimpy costumes” doesn't pack 'em in, then I don't know the nature of the populace; but I think I do.