Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (28 page)

Relax. Right.
Most of the people in this room would take great delight in seeing me dangle from a rope . . . especially those twelve hard-faced men being seated in the jury box.
No women, of course.

I finger the gray prison garment I am dressed in. Might as well make the accused look as guilty as hell. Saves time, I guess. As I wait for things to start, I recall a picture of another person clad exactly as I now am, and in similar circumstances. It was back in Paris, beautiful Paris . . .

 

It was at the Louvre Museum, and I was on the arm of Jean-Paul de Valdon, as he was showing me about the place. I, of course, was most impressed by the fine work hanging on the walls and expressed admiration at one I thought was especially well done, a large painting of Napoleon Bonaparte on horseback, by an artist named Jacques-Louis David. Jean-Paul, a committed Royalist, grimaced and said, “Yes, very fine. Now let me show you another work by this David.”

Saying that, he directed me to a small, rather crude pencil drawing hung around the corner. It depicted a woman dressed exactly as I am, sitting in a rude cart, her hands tied behind her and wearing a deep frown.

“It is a picture of the Queen being taken to her execution,” explained Jean-Paul. “David was a fiery revolutionary who deeply hated the King and Queen, so much so that he drew this from a balcony as she was taken to her death. It is reported that, as she was being prepared on the scaffold, Her Majesty accidentally stepped on the executioner's foot and then asked his pardon for it.”

The Executioner's reply was not recorded, only the fact that he did take the mobcap from her hair . . . one just like mine . . . before he laid her down under that terrible machine
 
. . .
 
Moments later, the blade came hissing down and the head of Marie Antoinette, Queen of France, lay at the bottom of a common basket . . . I hope I will be as brave or as gracious if that happens to me . . . but I doubt that I will . . .

Ah, Jean-Paul, those were wonderful days in spite of that awful war, were they not? I hope you are happy now, my bonny light horseman, you of the soft brown mustache, the gentle manners . . . and our little white tent, there on the battle­field of Jena . . .

 

I am shaken out of my reverie by Ezra's return to my side. Enough of the troubles of French royalty, for now it's time to focus on my own.

“They will take care of the smaller charges this morning,” he reports, “then get to the serious business this afternoon.”

“The small stuff?” I ask.

“Yes. Fleeing a warrant. Resisting arrest. Firing on an officer of the law. Kidnapping of a small child.”

“Oh,” I say, in a rather small voice.

“They will start with the circumstances of your resisting arrest at the circus,” Ezra goes on, “but I think you'll be glad to hear this . . .”

“What?” I ask, grateful for any good news.

“The boy Edgar Allen Polk has refused to testify against you, and without that, they have no charge of kidnapping.”

“What?” I ask, incredulous.

“Yes. The lad maintains he went with you willingly. He reports that for him to inform on you would be a violation of some ‘Brotherhood Code' or other.”

Well, I'll be damned, Edgar. I guess you have some honest pirate in you after all. Good for you!

“I call to the stand Federal Marshall Orville Purvis,” comes the sonorous call from United States Attorney Belcher, and a man attired in a black suit approaches the Bench. I recognize the outfit, if not the man, as one of my pursuers at the Montessori and Mattucci GrandCircus, which is where I wish I were right now, back in my snug little wagon.

“I will cross-examine some of these witnesses,” Ezra goes on. “But I won't put you on the stand till this afternoon. Agreed?”

“Yes, Ezra,” I say.

“And you will refrain from speaking out, no matter what is said about you?” he asks with a warning look.

“Yes, Ezra,” I agree wearily. “I will try to keep the Faber trap shut.”

“That would be very good. Ah, here we go.”

Marshall Orville Purvis goes up to stand in front of Prosecutor Belcher, who has in his hand a Bible. He orders Purvis to place his hand upon it, and recites, “Do you,Orville Purvis, swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do,” replies Marshall Purvis.

“Please be seated.”

Purvis places his bottom in the chair and waits to give his testimony.

“Mr. Purvis, you are a duly appointed Federal Marshall?”

“Yes, Sir, I am,” says Purvis with a certain amount of righteous self-importance, his hands folded across his belly.

“Very well, Marshall,” says Belcher. “Will you please tell us of the events of November fourth of this year?”

Purvis is about to answer, when Ezra gets to his feet and says, “Objection, Your Honor, for learned counsel is leading the witness. And furthermore, the question is irrelevant. This court has no interest in what Mr. Purvis had for breakfast on that particular day. Perhaps Counsel could be more specific in directing his questions?”

There are some titters in the room at this . . .

My good Mr. Pickering is plainly laying out his battle plan—to ridicule and confuse. Go get 'em, Ezra.

“Sustained,” growls Judge Thwackham. “Let's get on with it, Counselor.”

Attorney Belcher gives Ezra a glare, then continues. “Mr. Purvis, will you please give us a description of that day's events that concern the accused, Jacky Faber?”

“Yessir,” replies Purvis. “Myself and nine other agents were sent to this circus in New Bedford to apprehend the criminal Jacky Faber—”

“Objection,” says Ezra. “Miss Faber has not yet been convicted of any crime, the obvious hostility of this court notwithstanding.”

“Sustained, but watch your mouth concerning the conduct of my court, Mr. Pickering,” warns the Judge. “You seem to enjoy skirting the boundaries of contempt of court. Beware, Sir.”

A somewhat steamed Prosecutor Belcher returns to Purvis. “Go on, Marshall Purvis. Please be specific.”

“Harrumph. Yes, Sir,” answers a now red-faced Orville Purvis. “Anyway, we were sent to arrest a certain fugitive from the law named Jacky Faber, at the circus where she was employed. We had the proper warrant for that arrest.”

“And did you accomplish that arrest?”

“Yessir.”

“And, accomplishing that task, did you bring her back here to face these charges?”

“Yessir, we did.”

“Thank you, Mr. Purvis. No further questions. Do you wish to cross-examine, Counselor?” asks Belcher with a look to Ezra.

Purvis has his ample butt halfway out of the witness chair when Ezra replies, “Indeed, I do.” The Marshall sinks back, a wary look on his face as Ezra clasps his hands behind him and begins the destruction of U.S. Marshall Orville Purvis.

“Mr. Purvis, ten of you were sent to apprehend the suspect on that day. Did you accomplish the arrest on that day?”

“No, Sir,” replies Purvis, digging his finger into his collar, which seems to have grown quite tight. “It was on the next day that we nabbed her.”

“You mean ten full-grown officers of the law could not seize that one small female right there on the day in question? What was the problem?”

Here Ezra points at me, and I put on the full big-eyed helpless-waif look, the best one I've got.

“Well, Sir, she sort of escaped, like.”

“And how did she do that?”

“When we arrived, she was doing her act high up in the tent, Sir.”

“Did you serve her with the warrant when you entered the tent?”

“No, Sir. She was too high up to do that.”

“How did she get out of the tent?”

“Through a hole in the top, Sir.”

“Did you fire bullets at her fleeing form?”

“Yessir.”

“Did she fire any at you?”

“No, but she did—”

“Please answer just
yes
or
no,
Mr. Purvis. Those are the rules.”

“No.”

It is growing quite hot in here, but the witness seems to be growing even hotter under his collar.

“So just how did she effect this miraculous escape from all you big, strong, and well-armed men, all of whom seemed perfectly willing to shoot her down like a dog?”

“She slid down the back of the tent and took off on a horse.”

“You did not pursue? You had mounts, I assume? You did not arrive on the scene barefoot?”

“Yessir, we did. But you see, she set the lion on us.”

“The
lion?
” exclaims Ezra, holding his arms out to the court and affecting complete astonishment. “What
lion?
”

There is a gasp from the courtroom at that.

“Ahem. Well, there was a fearsome African lion in this cage and she set it loose on us. A fearsome beast it was, too, Sir. It scared the hell out of the horses.”

“And their brave riders, as well,” says Ezra, his voice dripping with contempt. He gets a good laugh from the audience on that. “I have it on good authority from theMontessori and Mattucci Circus that old Balthazar is both toothless and harmless.”

“Didn't look harmless to us, it—”

“Never mind,” says Ezra, cutting him off. “So when and how did you finally run down this suspect?”

“The next day, Sir . . . with dogs.”

“Ah, my congratulations to the dogs, if not to our rather timorous Marshall Service. Now, after this creature led you on that merry chase, what did you do with her?”

“Why, we brought her back here to face justice, Sir.”

“In an open wagon, was it not? And exhibited to the scorn of the crowds that lined the route to here?”

“Yes, but—”

“How was she dressed?”

“Why, in her circus costume.”

“Describe, please.”

“A very skimpy white corselette. Quite scandalous, it was.”

“If it was so scandalous, why did you not allow her to change into better clothing for the journey here, as she requested? You did have custody of her baggage, did you not?”

“Yes, but . . .”

Here I hear some hissing from the crowd . . . probably from the women.
Sure wish I had a few of them on that jury, for they would know how I felt during that ride.

“Yes, but you did not want to grant her even one shred of dignity, isn't that true? Isn't it true that you did not—?”

“Objection!” shouts Prosecutor Belcher. “That calls for a conclusion on the part of the witness!”

“Very well,” says Ezra. “I withdraw the question. I have no further queries of this witness. He may step down.”

A much relieved Mr. Purvis leaves the chair and heads for the exit, mopping his brow with his handkerchief, while Ezra goes to stand before Judge Thwackham.

“Your Honor, I move that the charge of resisting arrest against my client be dismissed on the grounds that—”

“Motion denied,” states Judge Thwackham. “We'll let the jury decide that. Call the next witness . . .”

 

And so it drones on till noon, when Thwackham brings down his gavel and says, “This court is adjourned for lunch till one o'clock. When we come back, we will conclude this trial.”

The Honorable Judge is not kidding, because inAmerica trials are swift, nearly always concluded in one day, whether that day be eight, twenty-four, or forty-eight hours long. And Thwackham shows no inclination whatsoever to prolong these proceedings. It is plain he wants my neck in a noose, and he wants it there soon.

Yes, I will know my fate this afternoon, that is for sure . . .

And God help me . . .

Needless to say, the rest of my trial did not go at all well . . .

Oh, Ezra, of course, did his level best, popping up every time Prosecutor Belcher opened his mouth to make a point, to object to whatever he said, bringing laughter from the court on many occasions. Restraining me was his biggest challenge.

And yes, Sheriff Williams was called to the stand and had to admit that, yes indeed, I had fired live rounds at him and his posse. He also confirmed the fact that he had served the warrant for my arrest at the Polk residence, so I could not slide out of that charge of resisting arrest quite so easily. The kidnapping of Edgar Polk was given a try, but that was all small change, compared to the Big One . . .

 

“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.”