Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business (10 page)

“Enforcement is spotty, and smugglers flourish. The mighty
Chesapeake
patrols the New England coast, ever vigilant for those who would ignore the edicts of Washington, DC.”

“So I cannot even take the
Nancy B.
to Jamaica on a simple granite–molasses run? Liquid sugar to fuel the rum distilleries of Massachusetts?”

“No, Miss, Jamaica is a British holding. And believe me, the rum factories are wailing over this.”

“What about Cuba?”

“The Spanish are now allies of the British. We can only conduct commerce with U.S. ports.”

“Right. And what is the profit in that?” I ask, seething.

“Well, there is New Orleans,” says Ezra, his small smile firmly in place. “It is now an American port.”

“So what should I do? Go down there and pick up a cargo of slaves and gumbo?”

“Actually, you could carry down a particular group of passengers, and bring a similar group back.”

“Wot?” I ask, mystified.

Ezra clasps his soft hands on his desk and gazes at me. “You know Mrs. Bodeen, do you not?”

“Yes, of course. Hers is the most well-run brothel in Boston, and she has done me many a good turn in the past.”

He holds up a check. “She has booked passage for ten of her . . . girls . . . from here to New Orleans, and passage on the return trip for ten others.”

Hmmm . . .
I knew from previous dealings with Mrs. Bodeen here in Boston and with her sister, Mrs. Babineau of the Rising Sun in New Orleans, that they liked to rotate their . . . stock . . . as it were, to insure freshness and variety for their customers.

“Five hundred dollars, each way,” says Ezra, waving the check. “It won't completely solve our financial problem, but it will help.”

I have to smile at that. I once swore that the
Lorelei Lee
would never become a floating brothel, and look what happened there—over two hundred prostitutes carried from London to Botany Bay, plying their ancient trade the whole way. Perhaps it is now the
Nancy B.
's
turn.

“We shall do it, Ezra, and we will leave tomorrow morning. Tell Mrs. Bodeen to have her girls packed and ready at Hallowell's Wharf at nine o'clock,” I say, rising. “Thank you for all you do for me, Ezra.” Here I put on my open-mouthed, foxy grin and lean over him. “And how, Mr. Pickering, would thirty pounds of pure gold help out the finances of Faber Shipping Worldwide? Hmmm?”

It is now his turn to stare open-mouthed at me, then say, “Wot?”

 

Mrs. Bodeen's gaggle of girls is gathered on the dock, with all their considerable baggage, as we make our final preparations for getting underway. I have delayed boarding them till I have a final talk with my crew.

“Listen up, all of you. We will be carrying a unique cargo to New Orleans and you all shall profit from it. However, there are rules. You shall have no congress of any kind with the cargo. Do you understand me?”

There were several groans heard on that.

“You men shall sling your hammocks outside, as it is warm enough, leaving the cabins to those below. The
Nancy B. Alsop
shall not become a whorehouse. Is that clear?”

John Thomas and Finn McGee, better known as Smasher, manage to look like hurt puppies on that pronouncement, so I soften things up a bit.

“Good. We shall visit at least three fine ports and liberty will be granted so you may have your fun there. As for now, Joannie, you may see the ladies to their berths, and Daniel, you may handle their baggage. Briskly, now, as the tide is ebbing. Jim Tanner, to your helm, Tink, John Thomas, and McGee to your lines.”

Mrs. Bodeen's ladies file up the gangway in a state of high spirits and gaiety. Most of them are very well known to Thomas and McGee, and many giggles are heard and winks are seen as they come aboard.

It's gonna be difficult, but I will have order on my ship, by God!

David Jones is the last of the crew to board, and I do not have to lecture him, as I see, down on the dock, Annie Jones, my very good friend and wife to the rogue, reading him the riot act with clenched fist on hip and finger on his nose. He laughs, wraps her in his strong embrace, plants a goodbye kiss on her mouth, and then bounds aboard with a final salute.

“Goodbye, Annie, my love! Keep your legs crossed and your knees together and your Davy will be back soon!”

“Tend to your sails, Mr. Jones, and never mind about Annie's knees,” I say sternly as he gains the deck. “You shall dream about them soon enough, sailor, when you are far away at sea.” He knuckles his brow in mock obeisance to me and goes to the buntline that will raise the main sail on my beautiful little schooner.

I go to the rail and lean over, shouting, “Don't worry, Annie. I'll keep an eye on the rascal! Count on it!”

She grins and waves, and I wave back, then go to my usual place on the quarterdeck, where I place one foot to either side of the centerline, the better to feel the movement of my ship. I am already in my usual shipboard attire—loose white shirt tucked into my butter-soft white leather Shawnee skirt over my cut-off short drawers. My feet, of course, are bare, the better to grip the soon to be wet and slanted deck.

As I wait to get underway, I have to smile in recalling Ezra's expression yesterday as I told him of my last remaining stash of the
Santa Magdalena
's
gold.

“Yes, Ezra, I left three bars of gold in a little underwater cave off Key West just in case I might need them some day. Looks like that day has come, so I shall go down and get it. There's a little brass-bound chest down there as well, which I believe is filled with coins and jewels.”

“Who knows about this?”

“Only Joannie Nichols. I stashed the stuff with her floating by my side. I have told her to pack her swimming stuff, and she is ecstatic, of course, but she does know how to keep her mouth shut.”

“But what of . . .”

“I will only be taking those of my crew who were in on the original plot. Davy and Tink, of course, and Joannie. I'd take Higgins, too, but he is not here, worse luck, as I miss him so. They all knew of the details. Jemimah figured everything out, so she's coming, too. Jim Tanner and Daniel Prescott were not privy to everything, except to the fact they were well rewarded when we got back. John Thomas and Finn McGee were delighted with their sudden good fortune, which they, of course, blew away in no time, in true sailor-ashore fashion. And there's you, too, dear Ezra, who will have to handle the disposition of what will soon be coming into the coffers of Faber Shipping Worldwide.”

“Hmmm . . . well, that can be arranged. Do be careful, Miss.”

“I will be careful, Ezra. Just a simple run to New Orleans, drop off the girls, cruise down to Key West, harvest some sponges for cover, pick up the remaining treasure, back to New Orleans to pick up the new crop of girls, and then back to good old Boston. What could be simpler?”

“In regard to you, Miss Faber, ‘simple' is a word I seldom use.”

“Oh, don't worry, Ezra, everything will be fine, a simple little cruise down the coast, not bothering anybody.”

In a minute we'll haul in the gangway and be off and—

There is a clatter of hooves on the wharf and I look over to see . . .
Clarissa?

It is indeed she, mounted on her horse, Jupiter, clad in an elegant red riding habit, and looking not at all happy.

“Clarissa!” I call. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Daddy is being just horrid about the marriage thing and I will not have it! He has sent men after me! They mean to take me back to our plantation! You must hide me!” She leaps off the horse and tosses the reins to Annie, who catches them and stands there astounded.

I go to the rail. “Why don't you go stay with Lissette?”

“That is the first place they would look,” she says, steaming.

“How about the school? Mistress would protect you.”

“Not from my father, she wouldn't.”

“Hmm . . . Well, you could stay in my digs at the Pig and Whistle, but . . . Boston is a small city and it wouldn't take long for them to find you.”

“Damn, damn, damn, and damn!” she shouts, a small but undeniably elegant bundle of inchoate rage.

Hmmm . . .
I'm thinking to myself, as the evil wells up in me, my old tormentor standing before me in need of my help . . .
There is another possibility, sweet sister of my soul . . .

“We are leaving for New Orleans within the next few minutes and you are welcome to go with us . . .
if
you have the fare as a passenger. The cost is one hundred dollars, round trip.”

“I don't have any money!” she snarls, looking back over her shoulder. I, too, hear the unmistakable sound of approaching horsemen.

“You should learn to carry some with you, dear, as it sometimes comes in handy when dealing with the common folk,” I say, smiling wickedly. “However, you could sign on as crew, and even be paid for your labor as you escape your pursuers.”

“How so?” she asks, mystified.

“You could come aboard as Second Cook's Helper, under Mrs. Jemimah Moses. Five dollars a week, room and board. What do you say?”

I cross my arms and wait for her reply.

She gazes up at me with a look of pure hatred, but then says, “All right, but I will get you for this.”

“Very well, Seaman Recruit Howe, you may come aboard,” I say grandly. “First Cook's Helper Ordinary Seaman Joannie Nichols here will show you to your berth and acquaint you with your duties.”

Clarissa storms up the gangway to be greeted by a grinning Joannie.

“This way, milady,” says Joannie, doing a mock curtsy and leading the way below.

I go back to my usual station on the quarterdeck and call out, “Bring in the gangway, throw off all lines, and set sail for the South!”

There is a cheer from my crew, but not, I suspect, from Clarissa.

Oh,
I exult
, this is going to be a fine, fine cruise!

 

 

 

 

We slip down the East Coast of the United States, and so far it is an easy voyage—the weather is mild and we have a fair breeze behind us. Everything is calm . . . except for Clarissa Worthington Howe . . . of the Virginia Howes.

“I will
not
peel potatoes!” she announces when we are not far out and preparations are being made for the noon meal. “Least of all for a nigra cook! The very idea!”

We are out on the main deck, nose to nose.

“Oh, yes, you will, Clarissa,” I snarl. “Everyone works when we are underway. If a sailor will not work, he is put off. If you will not work, I will put you off, as well.”

She looks over the rail at the water rushing by and says, a bit nervously, “You wouldn't dare . . .”

“Make you walk the plank? No, my dear, though the thought of your well-born blond head sinking beneath the waves is an image most charming to my mind right now,” I say, grinning through my bared teeth. “But, no. What I will do is go into the next port and have you rowed in and put ashore. I will give you enough money for overland passage back to Virginia or Boston, or wherever else you want to go. As the Captain of this ship, by the Law of the Sea, I am the absolute ruler of this vessel and all on it. If I were to give the order, Seaman Thomas here would bind you to that mast there, bare your back, and give you an even dozen of the cat-o'-nine-tails' loving touch! Is that not true, John Thomas?”

“That's right, Cap'n,” answers the grinning sailor, hugely enjoying this little exchange, as are the rest of the people on the deck—my crew and many of Mrs. Bodeen's girls who are out taking the fresh sea air. “And the claws of the Cat are sharp, believe you me. I have her stripes on me back to prove it. You want me to lash her up now, Skipper?”

Much hoots and laughter are heard all about on that. Clarissa stands there steaming and saying nothing, plainly remembering the whipping I took tied bare-back to the mast of the
Bloodhound.
She merely drills me with her furious gaze.
Strange,
I think, standing there, facing her down,
how those cold blue eyes can sometimes look so hot.

“But I would never do that to you, Clarissa, my dear Sister, for I do love and admire you, in some sort of twisted way,” I say, thrusting a bundle of clothes to her. “Here. Take these and put them on. You will find this gear much more comfortable than that riding habit you are wearing. Things will get more and more warm as we head south.”

She glares at me, ignoring the bundle. It is my old Powder Monkey outfit from my days as a convict on the
Lorelei Lee—
blousy white cotton top above, loose white trousers below
.
I believe it will serve her well here.

“Give it up, Sister, and you shall find it to your benefit. Yes, we work hard here on the
Nancy B.
, but we also have fun. Lots of fun. Keep that in mind. Now go below and tend to your duties, as we attend to ours.”

She glares, she fumes, she smokes, she burns, but she does finally snatch the clothes from my hand and go below to change and, yes, to peel potatoes.

 

Later, when I go down into the mess deck to see how things are going with the cargo, where some are seasick and in their bunks, but most are all right, I spy Jemimah cooking at her stove, and seated around her are Daniel, Joannie, and Clarissa Worthington Howe, all heads down and peeling away, while Jemimah's deep voice is intoning
. . .
and by'n'by, Brother Fox comes by the pond lookin' for somethin' to eat, him bein' powerful hungry, when he sees Brother Bullfrog sittin' on a lily pad . . .

Ah, yes, it is
so
good to be back at sea and on the
Nancy B.