Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (15 page)

Anyway, an update: While the girl, Cathy, is a joy, the boy, Edgar, continues to be a monster. Every now and then I pull a trick that beats him down for a while, but he soon charges back, mean as ever. He is a worthy adversary; I've got to say that for the little beast. He has announced that he no longer fears the Bed Monsters, so I informed him that those demons sometimes had “familiars”—bats, cats, and such—that did their bidding when the monsters were otherwise occupied dismembering and devouring other naughty little boys. He scoffed at that, but I think it gave him something to think about in the dark of night.

It was about a week after I had brought him to heel with the double portrait threat that he was up to his old tricks again, but wait
—
I shall tell you how it happened . . .

I was down in the dining room with Mr. and Mrs. Polk, having a cup of tea with them after their dinner and relating the events of the day regarding their children's activities, when we heard a shuffling of feet on the floor above, one of Edgar's early tricks for disrupting the peace of the household.

“Ah, poor Edgar is a bit restless tonight,” I said, rising. “I'll see to him and be right back.”

I went up to his room and found him in bed, looking defiantly up at me, daring me to say anything. I said nothing as I sat down on the edge of his bed. Then I said, “
Tsk, tsk,
Captain, it appears you have been eating cookies in bed, as you have crumbs all over the front of your nightshirt. Here, let me brush them off. There. Now try to go to sleep. All right?”

With that, I went back downstairs. I was pleased to see Mr. Polk with his hand on his wife's, and she almost sparkled in her blue dress, with white trim at neck and wrists.

I had scarcely sat back down when from above came a horrified
SCREECH!
and
“NO! NO! GET OFF ME!”

Once again I stand, saying, “Poor little man. He must be having a nightmare. He
is
so very high-strung . . .”

But Patience Polk rises, too. “I will go see to my son.”

And so she does, and we hear no more from him this night.

Hearty chortle. What I had done was, early in the evening, I had put a heavy doorstop in front of Blackie's little cat door so she could not get out for her evening prowl. Then when I went up to see to Edgar, I spread catnip, not cookie crumbs, over his front. Later, when he closed his eyes for a moment, he felt a sudden weight on his chest. His eyes snapped open again only to find a large black cat sitting on his chest, claws holding him firm, and snarling, with white fangs bared; hence, the scream.

Yes, I am indeed the Nanny from Hell.

But enough of my battle with a little boy . . . (heavy sigh). One thing I do pine for is the male companionship of grown-up boys. Jaimy's off to London to try to save both my reputation and my neck, and Randall's all wrapped up with Polly Von. Lord Richard Allen is in Virginia, on Clarissa's plantation—damn her eyes—and Joseph Jared's down in New York, duty bound to another ship. It's not that I could see any of them, mind you, for it would blow my cover for sure, but still
 
. . .
 
another heavy, heavy sigh . . .

In that regard, I know that Ezra Pickering is bending all efforts to get me out of my current jam, and as I am on the run, I cannot thank him enough in my usual fashion. Therefore, I officially delegate you, Amy Wemple Trevelyne, to be my proxy, and so you must do it. I order you to place a nice warm kiss upon his cheek the next time he comes to Dovecote. That, and enjoy a nice candlelight dinner, just the two of you. Do it for me.

Anyway, that's it for now. Regards and love to all,

 

Your loving sister,

Annabelle

 

This being my afternoon off, I seal up that missive to Amy and go to the post office to mail it, a lightness to my step and a song in my heart.

After posting my letter, I am delighted to find that I have a packet addressed to Annabelle Leigh from Amy herself. I can feel from the heft of it that it will contain something from Ezra, too.

Then, as I gaze upon it, my happiness fades and a sense of dread comes over me. An edge of the envelope has been lifted and is curled. It's as if it had been steamed open and a clumsy attempt had been made to reseal it. I look over at the Postmaster, but his face betrays nothing.

Now, wait, you. This could be nothing—a rough mail run from Boston to here—the weather has been damp, after all . . . But then again, Amy Trevelyne is as meticulous about small things as you are careless. She would never send a letter that was improperly secured. The blue seal with the letter T on the back is intact, but . . .

I may be acting overly careful, but so be it. In the past, my careless attitude has been my downfall many times, so I know I cannot let my guard down here.

I had planned to visit with Mrs. Tibbetts at the Rose for a nice cup of tea and conversation, but I quickly change plans. Instead I go to Mr. Filibuster's Emporium and purchase a tin of ship's biscuits, two bottles of good wine, another pint of paregoric, and several dry sausages.

“Planning a picnic, Miss Leigh?” asks Mr. Filibuster.

“Sort of,” I reply, and leave to go back to my room to repack my seabag.

Yes, Mr. Filibuster, I hope it is for nothing more than a jolly picnic, but . . .

It has been several days since my concern over the envelope, and nothing has happened, so maybe everything is all right. Maybe I was just worried about nothing. Maybe . . .

 

It is after lunch and we are back in the classroom, Cathy hard at work on her letters, Edgar drawing more bloody eyeballs. I sigh, pull out his math book, and make ready to force him into fractions, the multiplication thereof, when I notice a wagon being pulled up across the street. As it is rather cool today, the windows are closed. It is cool enough, in fact, for me to shed my Lawson Peabody dress in favor of my old serving-girl rig of loose white shirt, brown leather vest, and black skirt. It feels good, and my Lawson Peabody outfit could use a cleaning, for sure.

I look out, and the wagon seems to be a simple workman's cart, probably there to pick up trash. But then the driver steals a quick glance up at our window and I go rigid.

Uh-oh . . .

After a moment, a man in a dark suit comes up on horseback, dismounts, and ties his horse to the wagon. He, too, looks up.

This is it, then. No mistake.

I force myself to be calm as I lift my seabag and put it on Edgar's desk.

“What are you doing?” he asks crossly.

“Never mind,” I say. “Just stay out of the way.”

I look out the window again and see that the man who had arrived on horseback is joined by several others, one of whom is the Postmaster, looking righteous and smug.

I tear open my seabag and pull out the two primed pistols that lie within, as well as the bandoleer, into which are inserted twenty small white charges. I put that around my neck and over one shoulder. Seeing me place the pistols on top of the bag, Edgar's eyes grow wide and his jaw drops.

I wait. I do not have to wait long.

The headman down below picks up a speaking trumpet and holds it to his lips. “I am Sheriff Williams and I have a warrant for your arrest. We know you are up there, Jacky Faber. So come down peacefully and no one will be hurt.”

I pick up a pistol in each hand and shove their barrels through two of the windowpanes, the glass falling to the street below.

“You can cram that warrant up the Postmaster's bum, Sir!” I shout. “And how's this for peaceful?”

With that I fire my starboard gun—
wham!
—and the Postmaster's hat falls off his head. The reports are extremely loud in the enclosed classroom, and Edgar flinches at the sound. As for the postman, it was not my bullet that toppled his hat but his own fear, as my pistols were not loaded with ball. Good for the false bastard.

“She has killed me!” he shrieks, his hands to his unhurt head. Just to make sure there is no mistake about taking me easily, I fire my port pistol—
wham!
All down below take cover behind the wagon as I rip two charges from my bandoleer and reload—again with powder and cap only.

“Edgar! Pick up my bag and head for the back door! Now!”

“Wha-wha-what . . . ?”

I cram my right-hand pistol into my vest and grab him by the hair and shout into his face, “You wanted to join the pirate world? Well, you're in it now, kid! As a hostage! Now pick up that bag and get out that door, or I'll put a bullet in your brain right now! Move!”

Move he does, hastened along by my foot.

Before we go out the door, I spy Cathy standing with thumb back in mouth, and I do not blame her for that.

“Cathy! Go down to the bottom of the stairs and hold your arms out so the men can't get up the stairs!” The last I see of that sweet child is as she turns and goes down to do it.

I am at the top of the back stairs when I hear her small voice saying, “You can't go up there now. Governess is shooting.”

 

“Faster, Eddie! Faster! They'll be on us in a moment!” I cry, pounding down the back street after him. “If you try to run away, I'll put one in your back! If you stumble and fall, I'll shoot you on the ground! Move!”

“Wh-where are we going?” he gasps.

“To my boat! It's right there on that pier! The one with the blue hull! When you get there, toss in the bag and get in yourself!”

“Why . . . why me?”

“'Cause you're a goddamn hostage, is why! Move it!”

I hear the arresting party rounding the corner of First and Water streets with a great hue and cry, and I turn and give 'em something to really cry about. Turning and dropping to one knee, I get off my remaining shot, and they all duck away from a bullet that wasn't there.

That slows 'em down, for sure. Resuming my dash, I see Edgar has gained the pier and soon I put my foot on it as well.

“Yes! That one there! Get in!”

He throws in my seabag and, seeing my pistol trained on him, gets in as well. I cram both pistols into my vest, untie the
Evening Star,
and climb in after him. Grabbing an oar, I push us off the pier and pull up the sail, tighten the downhaul, and shout at Edgar, “Grab the tiller! Yes, that wooden stick next to you, and hold it amidships. Oh, just hold it straight, dammit!”

He does, and the
Star
moves out into the harbor as I reload my pistols. I rip off a white cartridge bag, feel for the bullet, bite it out, and hold it in my mouth. Then I pour the powder in the barrel, tamp it down with the ramrod, and place the percussion cap on the nipple. Now we're ready to fire. The same procedure goes for the other gun—bite ball, pour powder, spit bullet, tamp, and ready. I can reload a pistol four times a minute, and it has proved to be a very handy skill. I keep the two lead balls in the side of my mouth for disposal later.

The would-be arresting party has reached the pier, but they can do nothing to stop me. Although several of them have rifles, they cannot shoot at me for fear of hitting Edgar. Nay, all they can do is wave their arms and shout in vain.

Another man, however, has a much better idea, or so he thinks. He jumps into a handy boat—a fast-looking little sloop—and begins to rig it, planning to run me down on the water. I'll wager he has that reward in mind.

Oh, oh, how I wish I had the
Lorelei Lee
or the
Nancy B.
and their bully crews here. I'd turn this puny little town to a pile of ashes in no time. But I have neither, so I must use what I've got.

“Here's one in your boom,” I shout at him.
Crack!
The man ducks, proving yet again that I am a very good shot with imaginary bullets. “The next one goes in your gut, Mate!”

He does not press the point, but only scrambles back out of the boat.

Reloading, I jam my pistols into my vest, twist around, and see that we are nearing the entrance to the harbor.“Edgar! Pull the tiller a few inches that way.”

He does it, and the nose of the
Star
points down the center of the channel.

“That's it. Now rudder amidships again . . . good.”

In another few minutes we are in the open sea. A few minutes more and we are out of sight of land and I begin to breathe easier . . .

They can't catch me now.

As the land disappears over the horizon, Edgar finds the courage to speak. “So . . . so you really are that girl pirate? The one on the poster? The one they are after?”

“You bet, Eddie,” I say grandly, pulling out a pistol and waving it about. “The one and only Jacky Faber, Queen of the Ocean Sea, the Scourge of the Caribbean, and La Belle Jeune Fille Sans Merci!”

Squinting at the eastern horizon in search of shipping and finding none, I go on . . .

“And that last French bit means ‘The Beautiful Young Girl Without Mercy.' You may discount the ‘beautiful' part, but I'd advise you to pay attention to the ‘without mercy' bit, for I have none of that particular quality, and would shoot you in a minute if you step out of line.”

With that, I bring the barrel of my pistol around to bear on a point directly between his eyes, slowly pulling back the hammer—
click, click, click—
till it is at full cock.

“Do you take my meaning?”